Bad Blood
by Doors
Summary: The children have always thought of Fenrir Greyback as the monster hiding under the bed. Fenrir Greyback has always thought of the children as unfortunate, and of the parents as in need of teaching a lesson.
1. Chapter 1

**Note:** Written for The Original Horcrux's _100k Multi-chapter Competition_. This will be long. And real dark!fic. I'm rating it T because I don't think it will become extremely graphic, but that's subject to change. Feedback appreciated!

**WARNING:** Contains murder, cannibalism, and other dark themes. Proceed with caution.

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_And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth.  
_—**Revelation 6:8**

_In their eyes there's something lacking,  
What they need's a damn good whacking  
_—**Piggies**, The Beatles

**BAD BLOOD**

** Chapter One**

The difference between the werewolves and the _Normals_, thought Greyback, was that the werewolves were well aware of the damage they were causing. For one thing, they actually had to go through it. And they had to see everyone they knew go through it, too, because that pain wasn't exclusive to the first time, and there wasn't anyone running in their circles who had managed to cling to humanity. Well, there were a few who worked for the Dark Lord and came in from time to time and didn't dare to sneer, but they didn't count as friends. No, they were the humans, the high and mighty, never the scum of the earth, always superior, no matter what they might have done.

Now, perhaps Greyback wouldn't have wanted to retaliate if they hadn't been maligned as they had. Perhaps, even if he'd been left alone when he was younger, and allowed to hold a quiet, steady job, and pretend he was just a wizard with a 'condition', he wouldn't have minded so much. He may even have started to believe it. But it just wasn't true, as he understood now, with the young man's ignorance put away and years of bitter experience behind him. There was a marked difference between him and his kind and the Normal people, and it was simply that the Normals refused to recognise the monsters within themselves.

When he looked at them, he saw pigs. Grunting, sweaty pigs, clambering over each other for fame or fortune or ways to better improve their already undemanding lives. Oblivious. Animals that were only useful, he knew, as meat. And the most wonderful thing about pig meat was that it was disposed of – the fatty, grisly pieces as well as the leftovers – and sent back around in the cycle as slops.

The werewolves – his werewolves – received a lot of flak for being monsters, and he knew it was largely his fault. He was, and unashamedly, what he was, but he didn't want them tarred with the same brush. Most of them he had known since they were only children, and most of them, he knew, saw him as their father. _He_ was angry at the world, and he killed out of despise and contempt, but his children were not the same as he was. His children killed when they needed to eat, and yet that was something that remained largely misconstrued by the Normal society, who refused to entertain the notion that the lack of food was their responsibility entirely.

Fenrir Greyback was, as far as wizards were aware, dead. He had dropped off the earth, where they were concerned, in the winter of 1981. The Dark Lord had vanished, and there was no war left to fight. Greyback was sick of seeing his children slaughtered in a wizard's war in any case. The werewolves hid themselves at his command, and they lived in small groups, scattered throughout Britain, and they tried to stay alive.

But the small town he'd settled just outside, living with his offspring in the cellar and the upstairs living quarters of an abandoned old pub, was full of wizards as well, and he could see the looks of hatred on their faces when they walked past them and he could smell their soap and when he looked out of his window he could see the Muggles taking their kids to school.

Greyback had always liked kids.

He thought he might be going out of his mind (or what little he had left of it), sitting indoors all the day long. He read and re-read the paper, and wished he had books. The others in the house did not seem to mind as much. But some were not very intelligent, and he wished he'd brought a more dexterous bunch with him. He could only really bear the company of Ettie, the girl, and of Loki, who was the first, and named for Greyback's father. The rest made entertainment for themselves by tearing at the old furniture, by getting into fights with one another, by picking at their scabs.

He just sat and stared out of the window with his fingertips pressed together. He wasn't happy; it had been a long time since he was really, properly happy, but he knew when he felt best, and that was when he was showing the Normal people what was what. Doing everything that flew in the face of what they believed in. They wanted their nice, cosy little houses and their warm firesides, and they thought that that was enough. Everyone could be happy, as long as they had that. But that wasn't the case. Greyback had has house, and it was warm enough, and he had his family – a bigger family than he could ever have wished for, but he wasn't happy. While the wizards and the Muggles went about their business, happily oblivious and considering themselves at the head of the world, the werewolves starved.

The wizards talked of giving them fair and equal treatment, of neutralising the threat. The wizards ran the Werewolf Capture Unit. The wizards thought them less than human. The wizards were wrong. They weren't human, not any more. Being human, Greyback knew from bitter experience, was not something to be proud of. He was ashamed to look back on his youth and remember that he'd once had the same prejudices as the wizards of today – but he understood now, he understood so much more than anyone who was Normal, and even more than most of the other werewolves.

Some werewolves, ones that he'd bitten but that had been left with their parents, still tried to be like the Normal people. They still tried to fit in, to live among the wizards and hold down jobs. It was pathetic, them grovelling like dogs begging for a scrap of meat. They weren't dogs. They weren't human, though; they were something else entirely. A binding of two spirits, the man and the beast, and the beast was freedom and rage and it was nothing if not superior in every way to the Normals.

Being so much greater and more terrible than they, why then, thought Greyback, were he and his family were forced to live in a covert old pub and slowly starve lest they risk harming any one of the precious Normal children? They had the somewhat unique virtue amongst once-human creatures of being able to incite fear with their very presence. The War had proven that (they called it the Wizarding War, but that was it again, their arrogance, their refusal to accept that an equal amount of the battling had been carried out by the werewolves, by the Inferi and the giants and all the others). He regretted what came with consenting to ally himself with the 'Dark Lord' – the assumption that he did not consider himself above working below a wizard. And yet he knew he'd have no choice but to do the same again, did another opportunity ever arise. He knew the so-called Dark Lord's stance on what he thought of as half-breeds, but the offering of no longer having to skulk in the shadows was decent enough for him to instruct his sons and daughters to go along with it. But it was never his war, and he ached for every child of his that had been lost. It was a means to an end, and nothing more.

Here, he was left alone to think, and he was dangerous when he thought. He thought of the poor misguided souls outside his window, the ones who hurt the natural order of things with their very existence, toiling away in the Ministry of Magic, remaining silent as bills passed that meant the werewolves were treated ever more like stray dogs. Hiding their children from his as they passed in the street. Oh, and the children. The innocent ones, the ones who wouldn't have known how to hate him if it wasn't for their toxic parents and their hate-riddled minds. The children who'd been born in the last decade, who'd grown up knowing his name, but never his face. The children to whom his name was invoked as a threat for not finishing their vegetables or staying up too late. The children to whom he was the monster lurking under the bed. The children. The collateral damage.

The thought of the parents and he thought of the children and he thought of the pigs, those ignorant, blinded pig, mucking about in their pools of mud and trash, content enough to pretend there wasn't a world going on outside the flat white walls of their sties. Content to pretend that they were in charge here, that nothing was going to upset their seats at the head of this world. That they could while their days away and gorge themselves on slops 'til they grew fat and that their children could do the same. So utterly blind to what was really happing outside their four walls that they probably wouldn't notice if they were being fed pork rinds.

And pig meat did taste so much like human.

His favourite parts were the buttocks, as well as the flesh on the upper arms and the cheeks of the face. They were the most tender, and he didn't like the gristle. His children often fought over thighs, and chewed on the bones that were left over. They liked the back meat and the ribs, maybe because the ribs were so close to the heart. When they killed, they did so out of necessity, and that meant that they wasted nothing. They'd even crack open the skull and scoop out the brain, but he'd never been fond of it himself. He preferred the good cuts of meat, the sort that would be made into the best chops were it from a pig and ever to make it as far as the butcher's. And he liked it raw. He liked it hot and bloody and he liked to feel the skin on his lips.

But most of it was good to eat. The gristle and the scraps and the fat could even be scraped together and pressed into flat burgers, which, if they were kept cool, lasted a while, although they were largely tasteless. They'd move onto those parts after they'd finished with the rest and had otherwise licked the bones clean.

They rarely killed, but when they did they took whatever they could get. They found it best to stay out of the way of the Normal people, and not to attract attention, so when they killed, it was often a tramp they'd found in an empty street, or someone walking home alone. Bigger people were harder to get a hold of, though they preferred them, and if there were several werewolves, it was easier. They tended not to travel in packs, though. Greyback usually went out alone, and when he wanted to eat, he preferred the young. Their skin was softer and their flesh less tough, though they were smaller and didn't go around so well. He liked girls especially. They were largely hairless.

Normal folks used it as a scapegoat, because they saw them as less than human anyway, but they pretended that it was the werewolves' desire to eat that repulsed them. Hogwash. It was the Normals' skewed perception of humanity, and nothing more. Would they, thought Greyback, be so quick to condemn them if they were themselves backed into a corner? If _they_ had no other choice?

Greyback watched pigs walk past with their children, and for the first time in a long while, he felt his lips curl into a smile.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Greyback padded down the stairs. They were made of old wood and splintering slightly, and they creaked under his weight, but they held. The splinters didn't bother him; he often went barefooted, and the skin on his soles was hard and calloused. He wasn't sure he had more than one pair of boots in his possession, but he'd brought them at any rate, and he was glad he'd chosen to, as he'd need them for what he was planning to do.

The hallway at the bottom of the stairs led into the part of the building that had once been the bar. The room was largely empty now; most of the windows had been boarded up and the furniture was gone, save for the tables that were fixed to the floor in the little booths, and one or two chairs in a corner which had been there when they had arrived, but had since been torn up and used as crude teething toys. The shelves of the bar were also bare but for the almost-empty bottles that were stashed under the counter and had no doubt been forgotten. One of the werewolves he'd brought with him, a scrawny young man of no more than twenty called Bleddyn, was currently lying on his back on the floor, the mouth of a whisky bottle pressed to his own, his tongue sliding in and out, trying to get to the last drops. Greyback could tell it was a futile exercise. He kicked Bleddyn's side.

"Eh!" The man looked up at him, indignant. "Oh, it's you. Right." He sat up straight, and tried to look as though he hadn't been sucking on dirty glass.

"Where's Loki?" said Greyback flatly, uninterested in anything else Bleddyn had to offer. He really could have done without bringing him with him, but none of the others who'd been leading the other small packs had wanted to take him.

"Loki?" said Bleddyn. "I wouldn't know, sir, no, sir. Think I saw him go outside a little while ago."

"And did he come back in?" asked Greyback. Bleddyn looked up at him innocently.

"Bleddyn," said Greyback, "you're a useless son of a bitch. Go back to suckling on that bottle, won't you?"

Bleddyn had the grace to look abashed, and Greyback made his way out from behind the bar to the front door. They didn't often go outside, and certainly not together, because it wouldn't do for them to be spotted. The building, after all, was supposed to be abandoned, and too many strange people outside it would cause suspicion. Greyback found it difficult to be too angry with Bleddyn today, though. It was a good day for him. His anger had found another outlet.

And the weather was nice, too. Greyback couldn't see Loki in the road that stretched out into the town, though it was clear and bright. When they'd first arrived, in the dead of night, the peak of the hill upon which their new home was situated had been crawling with a dense grey fog, and it was all but impossible to see further than an arm's length in front of their own faces. The sounds of nature had seemed all the more sinister amongst their own silence. All they could hear was their own breath and footsteps and the night, and though they were not frightened by sounds in the darkness, it did good to be cautious.

Now, however, the grass was green and sweet-smelling, the outside walls of the pub a bright white, and the nearby river gurgled pleasantly. Loki was by this river; it ran near to their home, where the road outside it came to a dead end and melted into dirt and then the grass of no-man's land. He was crouching by it, hand outstretched with the running water breaking over his fingers, no doubt waiting for fish, but both he and Greyback, watching, knew it would be a fruitless task. The river was too shallow and to dirty to allow for much life.

"Loki," said Greyback. The sound was a rumble in his throat and he liked how it felt in his mouth. Loki's head snapped up at the sound of his voice.

"Fenrir," he said. Loki was still young, his voice just broken, his body still lean, and he was quite nearly good-looking. Or at least, he might have been. But his face was gaunt, and his jaw jutted out in a way that hadn't mattered when he was a child but that had come almost to define his features as he grew, though he had a tuft of beard, which was grey already, mostly disguising it. His teeth, which Greyback had never bothered to keep in check, were uneven and too long for his mouth, and it gave him the look of a wary bulldog. "I haven't eaten since Wednesday."

Greyback knelt beside him, knuckles kneading the soft soil. "You're too kind to them for your own good, boy. You should let them starve rather than go without, yourself. Especially Bleddyn." He snorted. "That one's about as useful as a wax cauldron."

Loki smirked. "And yet you chose to bring him with us."

"I don't leave my children behind. And I won't let you starve, either. I know what we're going to do, my boy. I'm going to teach the normal people a lesson. Short, and sharp, just like _that_ – once they realise. You're going to help me."

"Am I?" said Loki. "Now how can I do that?"

"Charm," murmured Greyback. "You're very good at charm."

"And what _are_ we going to do?" asked Loki.

"Well," said Greyback, "it begins with blending in. You know how thick they are, how they wouldn't recognise one of us if we were allowed to stay clean and if played at being normal?"

"Mm," said Loki, and he looked at Greyback through narrowed eyes. "And why would we want to?"

"Because I want them taken down a peg or two, and I'm not going to be able to do that unless I earn their trust first."

"What do you want me to do?"

The initial idea, Greyback explained to him, was a pose themselves as members of Normal society. It wouldn't be hard, he thought. It was a nice morning. The sun was shining and spring was in the air. The children – Muggles, mostly – were still attending the local school, and everything in the town was rather pleasant. When things seemed pleasant, he knew, people were less likely to suspect that anything nasty was going on. And Greyback had very nasty intentions.

Blending in was easy; it was getting cleaned up that was hard. The dirt under his fingernails had been there for so long that Greyback was sure it was almost a part of him now, and his hair, which he kept tied back with a length of string, was too long and matted to really be brushed out. It was a shame, he thought; he'd had rather nice hair as a young man – but there was nothing to be done now. They were not in possession of the ingredients for any potions, nor for that matter a cauldron, nor any sort of spell book that could have magically cleaned them up. It had never been high on their list of priorities until now.

Greyback brought Loki back to the pub, and into room that had once been the public toilets. The bowls were clean (Greyback had done very little to make the place more hygienic when they'd arrived, but Vanishing the contents of the waste in the toilets had been one thing), but they no longer functioned. There was, however, a long mirror which stretched the length of the wall, and though it was spotty with cracks and rust in the corners, it was the only mirror they had.

Greyback pulled his wand from the pockets of his cloak and handed it to Loki, who took it tentatively from his outstretched hand. "What's this for?"

Greyback shrugged off his cloak and dropped it to the floor, tugging at the string in his hair. It had been tied there with magic long ago – weeks, and he hadn't taken it out or washed it since. He always tied it up the morning after a full moon, and he rarely bothered to wash. It came loose with quite a bit of tugging, several strands of hair attached to it. It wasn't a Permanent Sticking Charm, but it had done its job. Greyback grunted and tossed it aside

"Use it." He gestured to the wand. "I want you to cut this off." He pulled at the ends of his hair, which felt strange now that they were loose, but were still clumped up together.

Loki cocked his head. "All of it?"

"Yes," said Greyback. "All of it. There's not much hope for it now, is there?"

"I'm not very good at magic," said Loki hesitantly.

"You can do a simple Severing Charm," said Greyback. "It doesn't have to be even, just workable. Now." He inclined his head towards Loki, turning it to the side. "Start with the front. I think that would be the easiest, don't you?"

"OK," said Loki, sounding unconvinced, but he knew better than to argue with Greyback. He placed a hand on the side of the man's head, pushing the hair away from Greyback's ear. The ear itself was long and pointed, and Loki's hands trembled just a little. "_D-diffindo_," he muttered, and hacked off a chuck of hair, which fell to the ground with a slapping sort of sound, and Greyback made a noise that might have been approval.

The cutting was a long and slow process, because Loki kept having to stop and step back in order to calm himself and be sure that he hadn't nicked Greyback in the scalp, and wasn't coming too close to trimming the ends of his ears off. He was worried, too, that Greyback might become impatient, but he did not, and when Loki had finished, he stood up straight and rubbed his fingers across what was left.

It was dark and prickly, but it made him look sufficiently less like himself, and more like one of the Muggles he had seen wondering round when he chose to go out to the pub – the heavyset kind who rode motorcycles and chugged back pints and laughed too loudly. Greyback smirked. His nails were still too long, and his face too dirty, but a bath would sort that. He was sure they had one somewhere. There may have been an old tub in one of the old outbuildings.

"Loki," he said, tearing his eyes from his own reflection in the mirror, "do you know anything about Muggle fashions?"

Loki fingered the wand he was still holding. "Not a lot, to be honest with you, Fenrir. I couldn't tell you if you looked like a Muggle. I've seen some of them walking about, but I haven't paid attention to what they were wearing. I think their clothing is quite bizarre. I've seen a lot of colours. And denim jeans. Other than that, I wouldn't know."

"Hmm." Greyback scratched his chin. "I know how to look like a Muggle, boy."

"Oh," said Loki. "Then... why did you ask me?"

"I haven't been into a town in a while. I was wondering if you knew anything more specific than I did."

"What, specifically?"

Greyback grinned. "How would a butcher dress?"

Loki said he didn't know, and Greyback assured him it was no matter. He would find out soon enough, he knew, and anyway, it was hardly the most pressing of his concerns. The most pressing was the bathtub, which he instructed Loki and Bleddyn to shift from the outbuilding and into the upstairs bathroom. Lugging it up the stairs they grunted and strained, and the others came out of the woodwork to observe, their yellow eyes wide and watchful. Though Bleddyn's face was red and covered in a fine sheen of sweat, and he looked almost ready to protest the task, he didn't. They knew better than that by now. Greyback could have used magic to levitate it, of course; he was the only one who really knew how, or had a wand, but these little things, the things the others would do for him, they were important. He wouldn't tolerate dissent, and they needed to know who exactly was in charge. What possible power could he have if not even his children obeyed him?

Washing wasn't anything he was fond of, but it felt good. The hot water that filled the tub was soothing, but before long it was dirtied with the brownish-red from his skin. And it began to feel strange – certainly, he did, once he had climbed out and dragged a towel over himself to dry. He felt more tender, and he was going pink under his hair, like a lobster boiling in a pot. It was pointless, and vain in most cases, he thought, bathing – but this was not most cases.

He pulled on the most Muggle clothes he could find, and they felt unnervingly soft on his skin – a black shirt and a pair of jeans. And he brushed his teeth, and he trimmed his nails, and he found his boots. And then he found Loki, who'd trimmed his own beard, and he thought they didn't look much like werewolves any longer. This wasn't true nature, Greyback thought, this was a wolf wearing a man's skin.

But a man's skin was what the wolves needed, and together they set off for the town.

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_Sorry if you find it's moving slowly, but there'll be more action in later chapters. :) Also please do note that Loki was an established part of my head!canon waaay before I heard about _The Avengers_, so, nope, that's not what I had in mind while writing him, wonderful though Hiddles is. :P Anyway, hope you liked it, and please let me know what you think!_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

The walk into town was longer than he would have imagined and by the end of it he was rather wishing that he had opted not to wear a coat. Of course, it really did no good for deflecting Muggle suspicions to go without, for his arms were riddled with scars and bite marks. Some of them had come, of course with his chosen lifestyle, from fighting with the others and from carelessness in his youth, but most were from his very early years as a werewolf, when he had had nothing else to maul upon the rising of the moon, and these scars were white and dimpled and had twisted as he had grown. Though the day was not particularly hot, the sun beat down with a steady sort of warmth that was not deflected even by a breeze of any kind, and it was through this that he and Loki had to make the two and a half mile trek into town.

By the time they arrived he was sweating and sticky; it was nothing he wasn't used to, but uncomfortable all the same. He hoped he would not smell too offensive to passers-by. Turning them away from him wasn't what he was hoping to achieve, not today.

Loki was following obediently, not saying anything. The town was relatively busy at this time of day, and that would do nicely, thought Greyback. It was much easier to arrive without anyone noticing. It was much easier to slowly worm one's way in, one villager at a time, until everyone knew you but no-one could remember quite how long you had been there, or why you had turned up in the first place. Much easier than announcing one's arrival, in any case. At least, he hoped it was. He'd never actually done it before. But he knew all about people; he knew what they were like, and he knew that if he just arrived one day and tried too hard to seem neighbourly and then children started disappearing the next day, there would be an outcry. Stealing children, he did know about – and people missed their children dearly.

One of them gave him a wide-eyed look as he passed by, a small, pudgy boy of about four, clutching his mother's hand. His mother was looking in the window of a shop that sold _electrics_ – whatever that was – and muttering something to herself about the extortionate kettle pricing, apparently under the impression that her son was listening and could understand her. Greyback bared his teeth in a grin at the little one, and he shuffled closed to his mother's leg, sucking on his thumb. His shirt was stained with what looked like baked beans. Greyback was glad the boy was being well-fed. He and Loki passed by him without saying a word. The boy probably wouldn't remember him in fifteen minutes.

What they were looking for, Greyback had explained to Loki on the way into the town, was a butcher's shop. It was possibly the thing he wanted most – there would be other ways of doing it, of course, but they were less likely to produce the desired results. What he wanted was somewhere clean and well-lit, somewhere that the people in the town would know and appreciate, and somewhere where he could store the meat properly.

Of course, subtle as he tried to be about it, there was no way that he wasn't going to be found out eventually – but that was all part of the fun. By the time they realised, it would be much, much too late, and he would laugh at their horror. And they'd know his name. He wondered if there were any wizards left in Britain who didn't know his name. The Muggles would, too. They wouldn't know what he was but they'd fear him just the same. And that was how it was meant to be. Humans under the werewolves. Lovely. He hummed quietly to himself. Loki just tried not to look guilty. He was always a little skittish around Normals.

Greyback stopped just outside a toy shop. "In here?" he grunted at Loki, who looked at him with bemusement. "I was thinking about getting a model train for your little brother." Loki cocked his head. Greyback held his gaze.

"Right," said Loki. "My little brother... He'd love a train set." His stomach growled.

The inside of the shop was curiously empty for a Saturday afternoon. Greyback supposed the weekend rush had died down by this time, and the kids were all at home entertaining themselves with their new prizes. There were voices a few aisles over, discussing the pros and cons of a certain type of doll, and a child wailing somewhere in the back of the shop. Greyback and Loki prowled through it, neither entirely sure what they were looking for. Greyback was not particularly interested in the children at the moment (he _was_, but he didn't want to seem it; he always was). This was more about being seen. About appearing to be interested in the toys. Because of his nephew (Loki was his nephew, too, he'd decided). Any later interest he took in the children would be expected. He'd be looking for a playmate for his nephew.

_Yes_, the young girl working the shop would say, when asked about the strange man with the crew cut and the scars working in the butcher's, _he was in here just the other day. Looking for a model train for his nephew. The mother's ill. He's looking after two boys. Poor things. Seemed harmless enough._

What she actually said when he reached the counter was a blunt, "What?" and he twitched, fingers instinctively curling in his pockets rather than round her throat. The short nails dug into the skin of his fingers and stung him.

"Pardon me," he said, teeth clenched, "but could you help me pick out a model train for my nephew, miss?"

She seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if she knew what he was thinking – that he'd rather like to unclench his teeth and sink them into her – but she nodded and got up, walking towards the display shelves and looking bored, telling him about the pros and cons of each model, asking him his nephew's age (he was five, said Greyback) and what sort of thing he was looking for (something blue, said Greyback; blue, he had decided, was his nephew's favourite colour).

After the frankly wearisome lecture on trains, Greyback told the girl he'd think about it, as his nephew's birthday was not until next week, thanked her, and he and Loki exited the shop. In the shining reflection of the glass, Greyback caught the girl staring after them. Loki had not uttered a single word.

They passed the other shops, passed several people doing late Saturday-afternoon shopping, who didn't give them more than a passing glance. Some of the younger ones, who had not yet learned, apparently, that staring was generally against the human code of conduct, did look at them curiously, but though Loki seemed nervous, Greyback maintained his calm. Though it would be all too easy to go a bit 'mad dog' on them – as he was purported to have done in a small village in Scotland, according to gossips and a woman called Skeeter who worked for the _Prophet_ – the fun in that would be over very soon. And he knew that Loki was scared of Normal people. He wished that he wasn't, because that wasn't how he wanted him to be, but regardless of his wishes, that was how he was. The others, some of them, were not so much, but he didn't want to bring them along, because they smelled, and would have given the game away, and because if he was honest, he liked Loki the best.

Loki had been his first – well, he had been the first that he had taken and raised as a son. There had been others, before, when he was young and out of control and lashed out by accident or in anger. But he'd intended Loki. He'd wanted him. He didn't know what his real name was—His _birth_ name. Loki was his real name now. He would always be Loki; he would always be a werewolf; he would always be Greyback's.

They were in a sort of square now, and it looked idyllic, thought Greyback bitterly. There was a statue, probably of some Muggle politician, dead and gone now, remembered only by the pigeons who flew by once in a while to take a shit on his head and by the teenagers who were hanging around there without purpose, drinking Coca-Cola from cans and scuffing their shoes on the cobbles of the street. If he was a wizard, thought Greyback, he probably would have assisted in the passing of the legislation that granted greater rights to the Werewolf Capture Unit, and he knew that he hated that man, blank eyes and all.

"Fenrir," said Loki quietly. He nudged him. Greyback looked away from the statue and in the direction Loki was indicating with his own gaze. There, on the corner, was a small shop with a white-and-tan awning. The free-standing wooden sign outside had a painting of a cartoonish, red-faced man holding a plate of sausages.

_McCAFFREY'S_, the sign read,  
_Family butcher est. 1952  
__QUALITY MEATS  
__CUSTOM CUTS  
__PRIME BEEF  
__PORK_

...and so on. Greyback's heart leapt in his chest. It wasn't really joy, more a sort of pre-emptive excitement. This sort of thing always got him very excited. He nodded to Loki and they headed in its direction together, taking care to look like ordinary folks. It wasn't as though he thought he looked particularly suspicious, but years of having to hide himself in plain site had taught him simply to walk as though he was _supposed_ to be there, and as though whatever plans he had were perfectly boring and acceptable. If you did that, really, people couldn't tell a wolf from a man – or even a hawk from a handsaw. It was delicious. They were delicious.

There was a little bell over the door that jingled as they walked inside. The shop was empty. Good. The floor was old, but clean: the only grime there was the stuff that had anchored itself between the tiles over the years and would now be impossible to shift, difficult even with magic. A long, glass-fronted counter stretched over to the left of the shop, filled with meats, and behind that a window, looking onto another street. A bulky Muggle thing, a telephone, Greyback thought, was beside the till. There was something quaint and old-fashioned about the place; there were signs and nets with sculpted replicas of meats hanging from the ceiling, looking more like spider webs than anything else, and old diagrams of pigs and cows, their bodies annotated with different cuts allotted to them, adorned the walls. The place smelled heavily of seasoning and salt, but under that there was the same old smell Greyback was all too familiar with – the smell of fresh meat. There were footsteps in the back as a man came out to greet them, summoned, ostensibly, by the ringing of the bell.

"Hello there," he said, sounding cheerful, but not sickeningly jovial. Greyback hated sickeningly jovial butchers. Theirs wasn't a job to feel in the least jovial about. "What can I do for you?" He was tall and plump, with a scruffy grey beard and slightly raised eyebrows. His apron was plain black over a white shirt, both stretched tight across his belly. Greyback thought they might fit him, too. The butcher was cleaning a knife on chequered tea towel.

"McCaffrey's family butcher's," said Greyback. "I can assume you're Mr McCaffrey?"

"That's right," said the man, looking up from his tea towel. "Is there anything I can help you with?"

"My name is Greyback, sir. I'm from the bank."

"Oh, I see." McCaffrey turned and set the tea towel down, and the knife on top of it. "You'd best come in the back, then, if we need to talk. I'll stick the kettle on."

"That won't be necessary," said Greyback to the back of McCaffrey's head, as the butcher headed through the door. He motioned for Loki to follow him behind the counter, and Loki did so, running his fingers along it, touching everything that was there. They went into the back room. "We won't be talking long. There's just a few things we need to check."

"All right, then," said McCaffrey, "I hope you don't mind blood."

The room was large and white, with metal tables lining the walls, chopping boards and cleavers, boning knives and the like scattered about them. There were pools of shining red liquid on the surfaces. Carcasses hung from the ceiling on hooks, cows, mostly, it looked like, red and raw, a forest of bodies. There was a door that seemed to lead to a small office, and a heavy-looking metal door at the back. Greyback guessed that that was where the rest of the meat was kept.

"It's not really blood, of course," McCaffrey was saying, "that's all been bled out in the slaughterhouse. But I know some people are funny about it, anyway, and those carcasses can sometimes set people off, especially if they've a delicate temperament. Are you funny about it?"

"Hardly," said Greyback. "Can't spell slaughter without laughter."

McCaffrey looked confused for a moment, and then he grinned. "Very clever," he said. "I've not heard that one before."

"Do you take care of this place on your own?" asked Greyback.

"I do at the moment," said McCaffrey. "I've got an ad drafted for the paper, though, looking for an apprentice over the summer. There's some local lads I know who'd be eager for the job – better for them than running around kicking footballs and pigeons, anyway – and this place is going to be being in a lot more business. It is, Mr Greyback, I've got plans." He sounded convinced. "I'll have the profit margins back up in no time."

"I'm sure the profit margins _will_ be back up in no time," said Greyback. "But you don't have any employees here?"

"Not – not as of yet, but like I say—"

"Do you have a wife, McCaffrey?"

"Pardon me?"

"A wife. Do you have one?"

Loki wandered past McCaffrey, running his fingers along the metal countertops, staring hard at the not-blood that had been spilled. His nails, though short, still made little scrabbling, screeching sounds, so hard was he dragging them. His tongue flicked out for a moment; the smell of the room was impossible to ignore and he hadn't eaten in days. He would eat soon.

"I do have a wife, but she doesn't know about this, she thinks I've been doing all right. Please don't tell her," he added, suddenly looking stricken. This was too fitting, thought Greyback. He'd taken a chance with the 'claiming to be from the bank' route, knowing that most people in this day and age – Normal ones, anyway – Muggle or wizard, seemed to be having some problems with the banks, unless they were Pure-blooded and had managed not to end up in prison after the war.

"I won't tell her," said Greyback. "Don't you worry, McCaffrey. I'm not going to say a damned word to your wife. You're going to tell her."

"What?" McCaffrey's brow furrowed. "No, I really think it's best she doesn't find out about this."

"You are going to tell her, aren't you?" said Greyback.

"No," said McCaffrey, looking suddenly defiant. "Which bank did you say you were from? You don't look like you're from the bank."

"You're going to tell her," said Greyback loudly, speaking over him, "that you've been having some financial trouble recently and you have to deal with it. You're going to tell her that you have to go away for a little while."

"Why would I do that?" said McCaffrey. He looked wrong-footed.

"You'll do it," said Greyback, and Loki clambered onto the table behind the butcher, pressing his newly-cleaned knife, which he'd left abandoned, to his throat, "because you want to live."

McCaffrey swallowed, and his Adam's apple grazed the blade. "Who _are_ you?" he said, in a voice that was little more than a strangled whisper. "What have I done to you? What do you want from me?" Loki's hand was gripping his hair, pulling it backwards, so that the man was forced to look at the ceiling.

"Take it one step at a time," said Greyback, wandering to the front of the shop and lifting the telephone from beside the till. The lead which attached it to the wall was long enough to pull into the back room, but still stretched rather tight once he'd brought it close to McCaffrey. "I want you to call your wife on this – this communication box, or whatever you call it. I'll put in the numbers for you."

"Don't you know what a phone is?" said McCaffrey, and his voice sounded as though he was trying to process the surreal situation. "You an alien or something?" He almost laughed. Loki growled in his ear.

"Worse," said Greyback with a smile. "Numbers, please."

McCaffrey didn't speak for a moment, and his eyes darted around the room, as though desperately trying to think of how he could get away. But he couldn't seem to work up the courage to try and knock Loki away, so in the end he stuttered out a few numbers, and Greyback poked his fingers in the little round hole in the dial of the _phone_, pulling it round and round again. He had seen Muggles do it in boxes on the street before. He didn't know how it worked, but he knew that it did, and he held the speaking end to McCaffrey's face, as the man whimpered.

"Please. Please don't. I have children."

"I can hear it ringing," said Greyback.

There was a sudden buzz on the phone which sounded like a voice.

"Hello?" said McCaffrey. "Hello, Mary. Yes, it's me. ... No, I'm just finishing up. ... Well, that's what I wanted to say. I've... I've been in trouble recently, with the bank. ... I know I said that was all over, but it turns out things were a little more complicated than I thought. But don't worry; you and the kids will be fine. ... Yes. ... Only the thing is, Mary, I've – I've got some business to sort out and I—" His voice choked up here, and Loki's wrist twitched. "I've got to go away for a while. ... When will I be back?" He looked at Greyback, who stared back blankly. "I'm not really sure. ... No, everything's fine." His voice nearly broke. "Mary, tell the kids I love them. I've got to go now..."

Greyback was pulling the speaking end away from him when he took a deep breath, as though he was about to shout that everything he'd just told her was a lie, but Greyback had already slammed the phone back on its hook and McCaffrey seemed to think better of it.

"I don't know what you want me to do," he said, and there were tears swimming in his eyes, "but, please, I'll do whatever you want. I'll run away, I'll hide. I won't tell anyone about you."

"That's not going to happen, McCaffrey," said Greyback, and he set the telephone down on the table.

"But you said – _you said I'd do this if I wanted to live_. _YOU SAID I'D LIVE!_" He seemed to be almost hysterical now.

"Did I?" said Greyback, as Loki swept the knife across the butcher's throat. The gash left began leaking blood almost instantly, and then it began coming out in spurts, splattering the floor and the tables that had previously only been stained with the meat juices. McCaffrey fell to his knees, clutching at his throat, gargling uselessly, spitting up, then reached out, tried to grab Greyback, tried to grab the tables, tried to grab anything, and then he flailed and collapsed, still gurgling until his eyes glazed over. He never heard the last words spoken to him. "I'm sorry, sir, but I'm afraid I lied."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

They both stared at the body for a moment, and then Greyback dropped the phone. He pulled out his wand and turned, locking the front door and slamming shut the door to the back room. He would have remembered to do that beforehand, only he wasn't thinking ahead. He'd never been one for meticulous planning – there were always too many variables – and he'd gotten excited.

But no-one had come in, and if he was to understand what the man had told him just moments before, no-one often came in these days. He could change that, he thought. There was something creepy about the place, with those danging decorations shaped like cuts of flesh. That wasn't the way to go about making butchery any less of a reminder of violent death.

He turned to see that Loki had leapt from the table and was crouching over the butcher's body. He'd tugged down the man's corduroy trousers so that they bunched up about his knees, and was guzzling frantically at his thigh. Greyback could hear it ripping apart, sounding slippery as Loki gulped it down. There was a lot more blood now; it had spilled from the place Loki was feeding upon, and it pooled on the floor and stained Loki's shirt and the knees of his own trousers, getting in his beard and smeared all over his face.

"Don't eat too much," said Greyback. "You'll make yourself sick."

Loki grunted in response, and the chewing slowed a bit. He didn't stop, though, and he probably wouldn't for a while. He was starving, after all. Greyback wandered around the room, looking at what had been left there by the previous owner. He wondered if anyone would be in to collect it. He hoped not, he thought, picking up a boning knife and testing the point with the tip of his finger, twirling it absent-mindedly. He hoped that the butcher didn't owe anyone any money – or at least, by the time they realised that something strange was going on, it would really be too late for them to do anything.

The door at the back, the heavy metal one, was locked, but it was a Muggle lock, and nothing that a simple Unlocking Charm didn't sort out. He pulled it open and a feeling of dreadful cold stole over him. The room was chilled through some Muggle method or other and it was dark. Inside were metal railings heavy with the hanging, spilt-open carcasses of headless livestock, and shelves along the walls contained the parts that weren't regarded as particularly pleasant – pigs' trotters, their ears, cuts to be given to the dogs. Greyback grinned, and it was a proper grin this time, into the darkness, and his stomach growled.

Leaving the door open, he turned to his son. "Are you finished yet, boy? We've got work to do, and I want to get started."

Loki looked up. His face, or at least the lower half of it, was a bright, shining red. Little droplets of blood flecked his forehead and his eyes seemed to gleam unnaturally white. He nodded. "For now."

"Good." Greyback strode over to him, and motioned for him to stand. He did. His front was streaked with blood. That would be a pain to clean up later. Greyback wished he had taken his time about it – maybe found an apron or used one of the knives, and kept the spillage to a minimum, but he supposed that would have been asking too much. He didn't think the boy had eaten in a few days.

He looked down at the sorry corpse of the former butcher. It was pathetic. He was limp and pale and stripped half naked, his mouth gaping open, his leg torn apart. There wasn't really anything about him that still said human – no soul about him, nor any fight, nor indeed any indication that he was anything other than the meat he had apparently spent his whole life working with. Just a pig, after all, fat and useful only in death. Greyback could still almost hear his final pleas – he had _children_, he had a _wife_ – and they meant nothing now. He almost laughed, finding it impossible to remember just why humans thought they were above any other sort of creature.

"I'll take this into the back," he said to Loki, "you go off and see if you can find yourself an apron, or a change of clothes."

Loki went as instructed, without a word, looking contented, and Greyback cast a Hovering Charm on the butcher's body. He was a heavy man, and didn't Hover very far, but it was enough to lift him a couple of inches off the floor – for the most part – and bring him into the cold room in the back, albeit occasionally bouncing him on the tiles and leaving a rather considerable trail of blood. He dropped him in a corner, leaving him slumped there, head lolling at an unnatural angle. He would begin work on the body later. For now, he'd leave it here so as not to let it rot. The most important thing at the moment was getting the place cleaned up – and themselves as well. If the shop was closed too long people would start to ask questions.

"Are you clean?" asked Greyback, stepping out of the cold room and pushing the door shut. It went back into its place with a resounding metallic thump. The handle was slippery. He looked down and realised he must have gotten the blood on his coat, and onto his hands. He sucked on his finger. It tasted good.

"I am." Loki emerged from the side room. He was wearing a shirt that was several sizes too large for him and had obviously belonged to the previous owner of the establishment. He was holding his own bloodied shirt in his hands. "Do you think you'll be able to clean this up, if I need to wear it later? There's a little toilet back there. It's a sort of changing room. I'm sorry for getting it dirty," he added suddenly, his voice going quiet, worried. "I was hungry."

"I know," said Greyback, and he was surprised by the sudden gentleness in his own voice. It struck him suddenly how much he cared for the boy. It hurt him to see him so desperate that he couldn't help but eat off the floor of a Muggle butcher's, and it hurt worse to know that there was nothing Greyback could do about it. Live among wizards? Live with the Normals and eat the food they provided at the table like a pet dog? He'd rather they starved. But he wouldn't have it either way if he could help it. Reaching out to Loki, he cupped his cheek and pulled him to him. If he had nothing else, he thought, if he had Loki he wouldn't be too badly off. He had been protecting him since he was barely more than a baby, and even now, if he was hungry, Greyback would make sure he was fed. "You won't be any longer."

"There was another apron in the back, as well," said Loki, casting his eyes downwards. I don't know if it would fit you, but..."

Greyback inclined his head and headed through the door. Loki was right; it was little more than a large cupboard with a small washbasin and a rack of hooks on a board. There was a black apron, the same as the one the butcher had been wearing, and a jacket, which must have been his, too. Greyback took the apron, shrugged off his coat and pulled it on instead, dropping the coat to the floor. It covered him, but only just, and he didn't have a lot of the strings at the back left to work with.

The shirt Loki was wearing, though, was much _too_ big for him. He'd rolled the sleeves up to his elbows, but it still gave the impression that he had wrapped himself in a bed sheet rather than got dressed. "Do you think you could shrink it?" asked Loki, tugging on the front flaps. They came down almost to his knees. "Only this doesn't look like it's supposed to."

"You'll grow into it," said Greyback, tugging his own apron and trying to make it look like it was supposed to belong to him, too. "Once we get you fed up a bit."

"I hope not," mumbled Loki. "He's a big bastard."

"We haven't got any time to waste," said Greyback, heading through and pulling open the door to the front of the shop, striding across the floor and unlocking the front door. "We need to keep things running as smoothly as possible, do you understand? I think a little renovation is in order." He looked up again at the dangling, wooden cuts of meat. "We'll get rid of these. No disrespect to the dead, but I can't find much nice to say about his choice of decor. They're a bit creepy."

"Creepy," snorted Loki, wandering behind the till and pushing a button, looking shocked when it made a dinging sound and the drawer sprang open. He pushed it in again, bemused. "I'm sure they won't think we're creepy at all."

"No, they'll think we're perfectly charming," growled Greyback, going behind the counter to join him. "How did you make this come out?" Loki showed him. The drawer shot open with a ding and Greyback took the paper money out, folded it, and slipped it in his back pocket. "Muggle money's rather odd. I can change it for gold next time I head to Diagon Alley." He did not add that he would probably not be in Diagon Alley for a long time yet; wizards still thought him dead and where there was a higher concentration, there was a higher likelihood of him being recognised, followed, lynched.

The next half hour or so was spent learning how to work the till and the scales and count Muggle money. Greyback had a vague idea, having spent a lot of time as a young man in Muggle pubs due to not being welcome in the wizarding ones, but Loki had never really been exposed to the Normal people before and it took a bit of teaching for him to learn to identify them. There were too many, he said, for one thing, he didn't understand the paper, and he didn't understand why the two pence coins were bigger most of the others. The scales were different than they were used to, as well: Greyback had spent hours of his life perfecting his technique for brewing the Wolfsbane potion (not that he did so often any more – it was too much trouble to do so for the others and he found that he didn't really need it), and he was familiar with brass scales for weighing ingredients, but the Muggle contraption was a different thing altogether. It seemed as though once the meat was plonked down atop the small steel plate, the dial span and that was it. There was no need to balance anything.

"Another example of wizarding idiocy," said Greyback quietly, speaking apparently to Loki, but really to himself. "They call Muggles backwards, but they've come so far while wizards are using the same equipment as they did back in the Bronze Age."

The bell at the door went off and the door began to open. Greyback looked up sharply, and Loki did the same, scuttling behind his back, apparently hoping he wouldn't be seen. Greyback glanced at the clock on the wall. It was half past four. He wondered what time he was supposed to close up at. A little old lady came in, head bent over and a large wicker handbag dangling from the crook of her arm. Greyback could see a loaf of bread sticking out from it. The lady wandered over to the counter, eyes fixed on the floor. Greyback followed her path with his gaze, and when she got to the front of the counter, she stood and stared at the meat for a while.

"Have these prices gone up?" she said, in a small, frail voice. It matched her physical body; she looked fragile, like a baby bird or a twig that would snap in a strong breeze. Greyback didn't think she'd be able to run very fast. There was that, if nothing else.

"No," he said. The old lady looked startled, and glanced up at him, apparently taken aback.

"You aren't Oliver," she said, reaching down and fumbling for a pair of eyeglasses that were on a long chain around her neck, resting on her fluffy cardigan. "I've never met you before."

Greyback bared his teeth in a grin. "No, ma'am, my name is Fenrir," he said, as she studied him, eyes distorted and round as though seen through a goldfish bowl. "_Oliver_... has gone away. Something about taking care of business. I'm taking care of _his_ business here... Just while he's gone, you see." He straightened a little card on the top of the counter that advertised the pies.

"Fenrir," repeated the old lady, eyes narrowed, letting her glasses drop back onto her chest. "That's an _odd_ sort of name." She sounded mildly offended, as though oddness wasn't something decent people did.

"It's Norse," said Greyback. "My grandmother's family came from Iceland. This is my nephew, Loki." He turned, to see Loki standing still behind him, his shoulders hunched. He could tell that if they were wolves at the moment, his ears would be pressed flat against his head. But they weren't; they had business to attend to. "He's a little shy. Come now, Loki. Aren't you going to say hello?" He gripped the boy's shoulder and steered him in front of him, prodding him in the back to make him walk forwards. Loki had no choice but to attempt a smile at the woman. "Don't be _frightened_," he said through gritted teeth. "You're usually so _friendly_."

"Hello!" Loki blurted, and she looked at him suspiciously. "I'm Loki. Lovely weather, isn't it?"

"Yes," she said slowly, "it is. How long have you been working here?" She addressed this question to Greyback. "I was in here just the other day and Oliver didn't mention anything about leaving, and he could talk the hind leg off a donkey. He's a sweet boy, but between you and me, not the brightest of the bunch. I knew his mother, you know," she added.

"Did you?" said Loki. "What was she like?"

"Ah." The old lady gave a little sigh. "Meredith was one of my dearest friends." She chuckled. "You wouldn't believe the sort of trouble we got up to back in the day. Why, I remember..." And she launched into a slow, rambling story about hopping aboard a fisherman's boat. Loki kept up a very good appearance of listening intently, and managed to maintain his smile, though it did become rather fixed. And when she stopped, a few minutes later, she glanced at the clock and then said, "When did you say you started working here?"

"Earlier on today," said Loki, shooting a furtive glance at Greyback. "We got a call from the butcher – McCaffrey – that is, Oliver – well, _he_ did, I just came along."

"This afternoon?" said the old lady, who, according to her story, was named Judith. "I wish I'd caught Oliver before he left. He always used to do me a good deal on the sausages. I was a very regular customer of his, you know..." she said, and Greyback took this as his cue to return to the conversation.

"And what can I do for you, today, Judith? Is it sausages you're after?"

"It is," said Judith, "Just a pound, please."

"A pound of sausages it is," said Greyback, pulling them from where they were wound up in the display tray. Fortunately, Judith seemed to want pork rather than beef, which was what he had chosen without thinking, and he weighed and packaged them without her saying another word. "I'll give you a good deal on these, Judith," he said, placing them, wrapped, on the countertop. "Half off. Better than what Oliver used to give you, I'd bet." He grinned at her, and she looked delighted, taking the little parcel with shaking hands and placing it in her bag.

"You're a very kind man." She handed Greyback the money and he took it with a smile. He could afford to lose money. He wasn't staying long.

"You flatter me, Judith. I'll be sure to remember your face. I never forget a face. Do I, Loki?"

"No," said Loki, who looked slightly uncomfortable. "He never forgets a face. He never forgets anyone."

It was true. Greyback never forgot anyone he'd spoken with; he never forgot the face of any man or woman and he never forgot their smell. He never forgot anyone he'd hated, or anyone he'd killed, or anyone who crossed his path at all. He was sure he wouldn't forget the frail old woman – especially not with her fondness for sausages.

With a smile, Judith clutched her bag to her and started towards the door. Greyback half-waved as he watched her go, and he licked his lips.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

With the woman gone, there were no more immediate customers looking to buy anything. The shop remained quiet for some time afterwards, and Greyback thought that it might have been lucky he had arrived when he did. It didn't seem as though the butcher's shop would be lasting much longer, and he would be able to get out as it came to its natural close. Maybe the reason for this was a new business, or maybe the growing popularity of one of those big indoor markets the Muggles had. Maybe people weren't as interested in fresh meat these days. Greyback was sure he could change that. He had a passion for it, after all, and when one had a passion, getting others involved was usually not too much of a challenge.

They spent a while looking in the cupboards and drawers behind the counter for any sort of paperwork, anything that would give them an indication of when they real bank would come sniffing around, any indication of when the rent for the building had been paid last. They couldn't find anything – presumably McCaffrey was so absent-minded that he had thrown it away, or was so stupid that he had had it delivered to his home and kept it there, despite not wanting his wife to discover what was really going on. Greyback was betting on the latter. So many people were so astoundingly stupid nowadays – or rather, they always had been, but he'd begun to notice it after he'd left school, when he was on the other side of Normal.

They did find a bucket and a sponge in one of the cupboards. Greyback told Loki to take it through to the back and clean up – there was still a lot of blood there, after all, and they couldn't risk someone seeing. That would lead to awkward questions. A little blood was expected (or was it really blood? Was that really all bled out before it got to the butchers?), but the sheer amount that had pooled on the floor and the counter tops was too great and too dark and fresh to be explained away by cutting meat. And you could never be sure that someone wasn't nosy enough to come back late at night after seeing something suspicious and try and have a snoop around for themselves. You couldn't count on it. They might not say anything to you; they might pretend not to notice it and continue on their merry way, but later, they might come back, and Greyback didn't want found out just yet. That would be no fun at all, and one butcher, hefty though he was, wasn't going to keep his family going for the next few months, especially when the full moon came around.

Loki took the bucket, at Greyback's wordless insistence of snoops, and went clanging into the wash room at the back. He didn't seem happy about it; he was no doubt still shaken from talking with the little old lady. He hadn't met many of them before, but Greyback knew that he was good-natured and generally wanted to keep everyone happy – at least, he wanted to keep Greyback happy, and he didn't like to upset his brothers and sisters too much. And Greyback knew that if he lost the tenseness he had around the Normals, they would appreciate the find customer service he provided.

It was his own fault, he mused, leaning back on one of the benches and dangling a raw strip of bacon into his mouth. He had kept the boy away from them – for his own good, of course – for almost his entire life, and he'd been brought up knowing the truth about them (which was that they were stupid and dangerous and hateful), and it wasn't surprising that Loki was finding that a little bit difficult to overcome. The others weren't so bad. Loki had been the first, and he hadn't really known what he was doing. He had been too keen to teach him about the horrors of humanity that he hadn't realised that he might need to one day take part in it. He'd taught the others about blending in. They may have been better at it – but then again, not, because most of them were not naturally as sweet-tempered as Loki; they were aggressive and feral, especially when the moon was waxing.

But Loki was pleasant, and a hard worker. Greyback chewed and swallowed the meat in his hands, keeping an eye on the door so that he wouldn't be caught if anyone decided to come in (though it didn't look likely), and listened to Loki scrubbing the floor. He was breathing heavily, the sponge rubbing the tiles hard enough to make a sloppy, scratching sound against them. It was obviously saturated with the blood and the water, and he could hear Loki lifting and rinsing it repeatedly, the water splashing hard into the metal bucket. His breath came in pants. That was good, thought Greyback. Do him good to work. They didn't live an easy life, but it was as easy as Greyback could make it for Loki, whom he usually let off the hook with these sorts of jobs, getting one of the others to do it for him. There was never any shortage of workers, but Loki needed to understand they were living in different times now. Things were harder. When he was younger, before the war had really taken a hold of the country, Greyback hadn't been as well known. It had been easier to live in a nice house, to eat regularly, to be content away from everyone else. But things were different now. Food was scarce, they had no real home, and they all had to do their bit.

When Loki was finished with the floor, he returned with the rinsed bucket and sponge, looking a little worse for wear, and claiming to have scrubbed most of it off the tiles, even the bits that had been dried in. "I couldn't get it all out from between the cracks," he said, "but I don't think anyone will notice. There's a lot of other stains back there anyway."

"Good lad," said Greyback, wiping his palms on his apron and rubbing his fingertips together so as to get rid of the stickiness from the bacon. "Wonderful help. We'll parcel up some of this later." He gestured to the meat in the counter. "And take one of those legs home next time we come back. Bring a bag of some kind. We don't want them seeing us carrying it right away."

"Of course not," said Loki. "We don't want them to see us carrying it at all."

"No," said Greyback. "Not at all," he agreed. He looked out into the street. It was late evening now, and the other shops seemed to be closing around him. The people in the town square were fewer now, though the teenagers loitering beside the statue had increased in number. He decided he'd leave it 'til six before closing. The hours weren't on the sign out front. Shoddy business, he thought. He'd be much better at it himself. And maybe he really could have been, had he ever had the opportunity to hold a legitimate job – barring his brief stint in the Ministry of Magic's Werewolf Support Services department as a young man (which he suspected was a job created more out of pity than any real intention of offering genuine support to werewolves) and a short period of time he'd spent working in an ice cream parlour.

He would rather have liked to have been a butcher, he thought. He'd been good at selling ice cream, and this seemed more of the same, except it was handling dead flesh rather than dairy produce. He wondered why the Muggles and the others had no issues with eating other animals for sustenance but frowned on cannibalism when it was just as necessary for survival, and probably more. There wasn't any real difference, was there? But then again, he thought with a wicked grin, it did give him something to dangle over them. It did make him the subject of nightmares and whispered stories, and notoriety, he supposed, was vastly preferable to being trodden under their feet.

"Pick what you want for tea," said Greyback. "We'll be leaving here at six. I don't trust most of those back at the house. Knowing Bleddyn, he'll have managed to set the place on fire, and that without a wand." Loki reached eagerly into the display and pulled out a couple of steaks. He lay them down in the paper beside the till, and wrapped them up, and did the same with a bunch of the sausages and some pork chops. "Not too much," warned Greyback. "Just enough for tonight and tomorrow. We'll be back on Monday morning. I don't imagine anyone will come sniffing around Sunday," he growled. "It's their _holy_ day." He spat the word.

He'd tried religion before. It hadn't worked. He'd wanted, for a brief span, to atone for his sins and to rid himself of the curse that plagued him. He'd been to see a priest. The priest had told him that there was a demon inside him, and it was only through penance and devotion to the Lord that he could purge himself of it and of the need to do terrible things. He had confessed and he had got down on his knees and he had prayed and he had even allowed himself to believe that that might be the key to his salvation and his humanity. But in the end there was nothing but the wolf, and when he'd realised that there was no God up there (or if there was, He didn't listen to sinners), he'd torn out the priest's throat and left him to bleed to death over the font. And God hadn't come for him, either.

"What about the butcher?" said Loki, stacking the little parcels neatly on top of one another. "Are we going to leave him there for the weekend?"

Greyback shrugged. "I wouldn't suppose he's going anywhere, would you?"

Six o'clock came soon enough, and Greyback hung his apron in the back. Loki kept his too-big shirt on. The other lay in the sink, pinkish-brown and rolled into a sodden ball. There wasn't much use in moving it now. Greyback slipped the parcels of meat into his pockets. They were deep, but too often empty, the pockets of his coat. The summer sun was still high in the sky, and though it was waning from what it had been at midday, it was still warm enough to be pleasant weather for something like a picnic. He hoped the meat wouldn't start to smell. He would have Transfigured it into something smaller, only he wasn't sure that he'd be able to transfigure it back, and they needed this.

They were starting to go out of their minds with hunger back there, and it wouldn't be long before they turned on each other. Greyback knew how it was. It had happened before, when werewolves had tried to live together. Oh, there was no actual evidence, and people tended to think of it more as myth than anything else, but when he had been working for the Werewolf Suppoort, he had spent a lot of time reading, and he had found out a lot of things that made his blood boil and believed a lot of things that wizards turned a blind eye to.

There had never really been a successful settlement of werewolves before. They were all eventually hunted down or scattered or scared into a hiding so deep that they never came out. That's what had happened in Britain back in the thirties. Maybe there were still some of them out there, in the Scottish mountains, wild men who'd never seen the inside of a house. In the eighteen-hundreds in France, there had been a small group of them in Paris – decent, respectable folks trying to earn a decent, respectable living – who were excluded from society to such an extent they were kept out of the city by wizards who thought they were protecting the inhabitants therein. On the outskirts, there'd been no life but for a few stray cats, and nowhere to even get so much as a mouldy loaf of bread. They'd turned on each other in the end, in the night, when the moon was grinning down like the Cheshire Cat. They'd killed their own brothers because they'd have been killed themselves otherwise. Greyback had stopped reading the book at that point, and he'd never mentioned it to his children. That wouldn't be _them_. He would take care of _them_.

Outside of the shop, he had Loki fold up the wooden sign while he himself rolled up the awning and pulled down the shutters. It was a fiddly task without magic, but there were still people in the streets. Eventually he gave up trying to be neat, and bundled the canopy up, ham-fisted, until it was flat enough to go under the shutters without protest. That was probably bad for it; it probably wouldn't be able to withstand more than a few such treatments and would probably be infernally wrinkly the next time he let it up, but the consequences were less, he decided, than the cost of spending half an hour trying to fold it properly (which would have irritated him greatly). Loki clutched the wooden board to his chest and waddled inside with it, setting it against the wall. Greyback, who had rummaged earlier, in the time spent getting acquainted with the place, in the butcher's pockets for the keys, finally got the shutters down as far as he could (and with minimal injury; he only nicked one hand) and when Loki came out again, he was ready to lock up. He turned to the boy.

"Good day's work," he said, quietly. "You deserve to eat well tonight."

Loki started to say something, but he was interrupted by the pounding of footsteps and the call of a woman's voice. Both the werewolves turned. Hurrying up the footpath was a harried-looking woman, a small boy in tow – a small boy with baked-bean sauce on his shirt. Greyback had seen him before, earlier in the day. The woman had since acquired several bulging bags of shopping, and the boy looked as though he was ready to sleep on his feet. He was chewing on his own knuckles absent-mindedly. Without thinking, Greyback gave him a fond smile. Loki had used to do that when he was a youngster.

"...don't suppose you could give me just a moment?" said the woman. "I've been round the town all day, but I've completely forgotten that I had to get something for tonight's tea. I've run all the way from the bus stop," she said, shaking her head, as though Greyback knew where the bus stop was.

Loki looked hesitantly to Greyback, who straightened up and took the key out of the lock. "You need something for dinner?" he said. "For this little one? Don't you worry, madam. Of course we'll make an exception." Hand still on the doorknob, he turned it and swung the door open. The lights were off now, the sunlight blocked by the shutters. The wooden cuts of meat dangling from the ceiling looked oddly sinister in the darkness. Loki flicked on the lights as he headed behind the counter. Greyback stayed by the door. Smiling gratefully, the woman and her son stepped inside, her son glancing behind at Greyback, as though he thought he remembered him from earlier.

"Thank you so, so much," the woman was saying. "You're real lifesavers, the pair of you. I thought it would be the other fellow, whatsisname—"

"McCaffrey," said Loki, quietly, "It's on the sign."

"Yes. Well, I was late once before and he wouldn't sell me anything. 'Closing time is closing time,' he said. Bastard. Excuse me. I've had a bit of rough day."

"We've all been there," said Loki.

"We're happy to be of service," said Greyback, his eyes still focused on the boy. "We're rather new here ourselves... Tell me – where does your son go to school?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

The boy didn't go to school at all, and Greyback had known that. But it had provided a window of opportunity in which to introduce himself as the uncle of another small boy – aged five, turning six next week – who was starting school at the start of the autumn term, after the summer had finished. The young lady, Iris, told him her son was also due to start in September. Perhaps Marty and Greyback's nephew could play together at some time during the summer, and get to know each other?

Greyback had agreed, and after getting directions to the school under the pretence he was going to ask for a tour, hastened her out of the shop with the excuse that he was anxious to get home and relieve his older niece of the responsibility of caring for the boy.

"I think we'll take a little detour on the way home, don't you?" said Greyback to Loki, as they closed up once again, the woman out of earshot and the passers-by few.

"I suppose," said Loki. "Um, listen, Fenrir..." He trailed off.

"I'm listening," said Greyback, pocketing the keys to the shop and beginning to walk in the direction he'd been told by Iris – it wasn't too far out of the way from their home, just an extra mile or so, and it finished up at three in the afternoon, or so he'd been told. The weekend would be the best time to have a look around. It was a day school, and there would be no-one there, not even the cleaners, who would have finished up their jobs on Friday evening and probably wouldn't be back in until Monday. Greyback was hoping against stringent security measures. This town didn't seem the sort of place to need them.

"That kid..." Loki was loping alongside him; he had to take a couple of strides to match each one of Greyback's. "I mean... He was so little..."

Greyback grunted. "So was the butcher, once."

"Yes, but... It's different, isn't it?"

"No," said Greyback. "It's not. But if it's any consolation to you," he growled, "the kid doesn't go to school, so I doubt anything will happen to him at all."

"But the others," said Loki. "I'd forgotten how—"

"The only difference," said Greyback loudly, "between you and them is that you were lucky enough to have been brought away from the Normal people before they had a chance to infect you. I could have killed you, but I didn't. You were lucky. These children are not."

Loki sucked in air through his nose. He didn't say anything else. The hairs on Greyback's neck were bristling. He wasn't used to dissent, and he didn't like sentimentality. Loki would soon get over his momentary lapse in judgement if he knew what was good for him. He looked around with his ears pricked. The street they had crossed on to seemed to be empty. He knew he had spoken louder than he should have when he was talking about such things.

Greyback wondered whether or not he should offer some words of comfort to the boy, but found there were none. It was true, what he'd said – he only cared for Loki and the others because they were like him. If Loki was just a baby he didn't know, he wouldn't have hesitated to kill him, if he'd wanted to. He'd killed children before. He'd killed a lot of children. It had been scary the first time, because back then the wolf had been like a separate entity sharing his head, and it had taken over his body, and he didn't know what he had done. Waking up covered in someone else's blood with no memories of it was disturbing. And he did like kids. But he knew what they could grow up to be, and unless he knew they'd grow up to be decent, like Loki, there was no point in pretending they were any different than any other people.

And they were delicious.

Loki turned his head away and he did not speak until they reached the school. He adored Fenrir; Fenrir was the only thing in his world that he could adore. He was the only parent he could remember (though sometimes, when he was nearly asleep, he thought of rooms and eyes that were half-familiar and he thought he could smell something sweet, like flowers, but he didn't like to think on that, because it filled him with a great sense of loss). And he wanted more than anything for Fenrir to be happy. But sometimes the things he said didn't always make sense. Loki hadn't questioned it when he was younger, because he had no reason to. But now he could see things weren't always like Fenrir said they were – the little children that he'd brought back to their old home in recent years hadn't been any different from the few Normal children that he had met. Neither of them really knew what werewolves were. Neither of them really seemed to care. He didn't like to see hear the little ones screaming when the full moon came up. He didn't like the thought of killing children who didn't know they were a part of Greyback's war.

Fenrir was much wiser than him, though, he thought miserably, tugging on the too-long corners of his shirt. Fenrir knew what he was doing, and he wanted to look after Loki and the rest of the wolves. He'd taken in strays and kept them all safe when they would have been hunted and killed otherwise. Fenrir, his father, was a good man, and Loki trusted him, even if he didn't always understand him.

The school was a large, whitewashed building in the middle of a grey gravel playground. There were faint white markings on the gravel that seemed to indicate some sort of sports pitch. From behind the building, a slip of green grass peeked out. A low brick wall carried a painted metal sign that announced TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED in bold red. Greyback clambered over the wall and motioned for Loki to do the same.

"Trespassers prosecuted," said Loki. "That's what the sign says."

"Bugger the sign," said Greyback. "There's no-one about."

He was right. The houses nearby were all facing away from the school, their back gardens rather than the front turned to it. And the gardens were shielded from the school by high stone walls, and only the tiny, fuzzy bathroom windows were overlooking it.

"We'll be in and out before anyone comes, and if they do, we'll just say we were taking in logistics."

"What's logistics?" asked Loki, resigning himself to following Greyback over the wall.

"We were seeing if it was close enough to send the little one, or if we'd be better off going for a school in the next village over."

"What's the little one's name?"

"I don't know. Scott."

"Scott," repeated Loki. "'My little brother's called Scott,'" he said, seeing how it sounded.

Greyback rolled his eyes and walked to the back of the building without saying anything. Loki followed. The sounds of the children playing in the front gardens of the houses echoed there, amplified by the high walls of the school. There was a bright red set of double doors with hanging baskets on either side, which seemed to be the main entrance, though there was no sign. The wide windows were darkened, curtains pulled across them. Greyback stooped to peer through the gaps. He couldn't make out much but the shapes of chairs resting atop the tables, and a blackboard looming on the far wall. The narrow windowsills were covered in the children's arts and crafts: paper giraffes on toothpick legs and brightly-coloured sculptures constructed from what appeared to be sweet wrappers were on the wrong side of the curtain. The sculptures had no real shape. The doors pointed in the direction of their own home. There was a path that led to the other side of town there¸ a wide, tarmac one, which splintered off to the left, over a grass patch, to a more rugged, trodden path.

Greyback wandered over to it and let himself out over the other wall. The path didn't lead ostensibly in the direction of their house, but it seemed to curve off into the distance, where it was obscured by trees. It led, presumably, to the far side of town. It would be shortcut, much quicker than following the main path. Probably, Greyback thought, following it, it would have been an old track used by kids in years gone by, which had fallen out of use when the new tarmac was laid down and the school was given an overhaul – it certainly did seem to have been given a new lick of paint or two in the past few years. The doors were shiny, though the windows had years of dirt collected in the corners.

If he was right, the path led through an edge of the town which had probably been abandoned, and probably there was some sort of dangerous area the kids liked to play in that their mothers always warned them to stay away from when they were walking home from school. The little ones wouldn't be allowed. It would be the older kids who came this way, the ones in their final year and protesting their mother's watchful eye, the ones who were going into Big School next year, and their friends in the year below – _If he can do it, why can't I?_

He stopped walking when he saw it, and Loki, keeping close being, nearly bumped into him. It looked as though it had once been some sort of building site, but any building that had ever been taking place there had been abandoned long ago – from the looks of it, before it had even begun. It wasn't unusual – it happened. Companies ran out of money, or people decided not to go ahead with their plans and there was bare space left, filled with the beginnings of holes for the foundations and piles of earth and miscellaneous pieces of abandoned equipments, pipes and piles of bricks and the like. It couldn't be more than twenty minutes from their own home. School finished at three, Iris had said.

Pressing the tips of his index fingers together and to his lips, Greyback turned, motioning for Loki to move onwards, towards home. "It's suitable," he said. "We'll have Ettie come here on Monday afternoon."

"Fenrir," said Loki hesitantly, moving on at Greyback's insistence, scampering slightly, trying to move while still facing Greyback, "what if that woman in the shop really meant what she said? About getting her son and your nephew together to play?"

"I'll tell her he is ill," said Greyback quietly. "I'll tell her it's not suitable that he come into contact with any other children for the time being. Shortly, perhaps, but not for the next few weeks. That will give us more than enough time, don't you think? We should only be spending one or two months here."

"But what if—"

"Loki, be quiet. When have I ever failed you before?"

So Loki was quiet, and he didn't raise any more questions. He may have wanted to, as time went on, but he tried his very best to quash them, and he put his trust in Greyback, as he always had done.

They arrived home with the birds still chirping in the trees. It was a beautiful day, thought Greyback. He had wanted to wring those birds' necks in the past. Now he thought their singing sounded sweet. Everything was falling into place.

He was greeted as he walked in the door by the faces of the others, four and all of them male, eyes gleaming with hunger. They were seated around the old drinks counter, and looked as though they had been waiting for him. Faolan, who was the youngest at something like twelve, was sitting on the floor, carving into the wooden floorboards with his nails. He looked up when the door swung open. There was a moment of silence, as they tried to sense the mood – had Greyback been successful? Would they eat tonight? Then Greyback smiled, a yellow grin that stretched from ear to ear, and the others did too.

Faolan got to his haunches, seeming almost ready to leap at Greyback; the rest sat up straighter, alert. Greyback strode to them and, reaching into his pockets, thumped the meat he'd taken from the shop onto the counter.

"For tonight and for tomorrow," he said. "Make it last. After that I have a man for you. That should keep you going, am I right?" They barely answered, scrabbling for the packages. Greyback laughed and turned to Loki. "For you, this," he added, passing him a paper-wrapped pork chop, which Loki accepted gratefully. "And where's Ettie?" he asked of the ones who were feeding, looking around the bar to see if she might be in the room. She was not.

"Upstairs," said Ralph, between swallows. "Washing your sheets."

Greyback headed up there, leaving the rest of them to it. He wasn't particularly hungry at the moment; he'd eaten when the business was slow in the shop, and he'd eaten enough. He'd kept a little meat in his pockets to make sure he had enough for himself in case his plan went to pot, anyway.

Ettie was in his room upstairs, which was the only bedroom anyone had to themselves. It was small, though, hardly bigger than a broom cupboard, and the bed took up most of the floor space. Ettie was bent over on the bed, tucking a sheet under the corner. She looked up when the opening door hit the bed frame, her hair damp with sweat.

"You're back!" she said, sitting up on her knees. "I was beginning to wonder what had happened to you."

"Only good things," said Greyback. "I brought you food. What's this?" As he held out the meat, he gestured at the bed.

"I thought, seeing as you got all cleaned up earlier, you might like a nice clean bed." She scooted forwards, and all but grabbed the offering from his hands. "Seems a waste otherwise."

"What, I don't scrub up well?"

"You know what I mean."

Ettie was magical, as were a few of the werewolves he had taken in over the years, but her wand had been snapped long ago during some full moon or other. It was easy to lose a wand, as a werewolf, if it wasn't stored safely when the moon was full or if the Capture Unit got wind of it. Greyback was the only one who still had one in their house – though he had snapped Ralph's accidentally on purpose, because Ralph had seemed to think he knew what was what better than Greyback did. He didn't think that any more. It did make life difficult, though, and Greyback knew it must have taken Ettie a long while to wash the bedclothes without magic.

"You couldn't have gotten one of the boys to do this? Why's it been left to you?"

"They don't think of things like that," said Ettie, chewing on a sausage. Greyback sat on the bed beside her. "If you want anything else..."

"I do," said Greyback, "but not that."

Ettie tilted her head, a strand of curly hair falling into her dark eyes. She brushed it away, eyebrows furrowed. "What else?"

"There is a school in the town, and it finishes class at three o'clock on a Monday afternoon. There is an old path the children seem to walk, out of sight of the houses. You are a respectable-looking girl. I'm sure, Ettie, that they would find you utterly charming."

* * *

_Ralph as in Fiennes, not Ralph as in Wiggum. _

**_Please review!_**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

They spent the following day a lot more contentedly than they had spent most days before. They were less inclined to fight with one another than they were when they were hungry. The weather dampened a little, but it didn't dampen their spirits. Most of the day, they spent lazing around, hardly speaking. Even Ralph, who was contemplating writing a strongly-worded letter to the _Daily Prophet_ about the naming of the Wizarding War, had given it a rest. Though Greyback agreed with his sentiments, it had been a long while since he'd ever tried to reason with people through so-called 'peaceful' methods, and he thought Ralph was stupid for trying. But he didn't try and stop him. Ralph was restless and confrontational most of the time, but he was calmer now that he'd been fed, and he didn't do much more to disturb the peace of the day than to give Bleddyn a good kick in the side, but that wasn't surprising.

What little food they had left over was kept safe in a dark cupboard underneath the bar, and Greyback hoped they would have the sense to keep an eye on it. He wouldn't have trusted Bleddyn with anything, and Faolan was young – not a baby, but not yet old enough (or at least, bright enough, bless him) to understand that when Greyback said that was all the food he was going to get, he meant it. They planned to eat it later that night. Greyback had locked the cupboard with magic, but he knew that they could smell it, and Bleddyn spent most of the day sitting by the cupboard, sniffing the air and gnawing on one of the table legs that he had salvaged from the left over furniture when they'd moved in. It was barely hanging together by more than splinters now.

They ate in the evening, and it was a much more peaceable meal than they had had in a long time – it was the first they'd actually eaten together in a long time, because before that, the only food they'd gotten here had been stolen from the backs of the houses closest to them, from the bins, or the occasional unwary rabbit or bird that one of them had managed to capture. As a result, their meals had been small and when one or two ate, the others had usually gone without. But not that night. That night was familial and almost pleasant; Greyback sat in a chair by the fire and the others sat around on the floor, and they talked and laughed Greyback knew that things were looking up. Things were going to get good.

Monday morning went without any sort of trouble. Greyback woke Loki up early in the morning, before the others began to stir. They washed – the first time since Saturday. Greyback thought he might take to doing it more often. There was something oddly satisfying about the softness of his bed against clean skin.

He and Loki opened the shop and they carried on as normal, insisting to the few customers they had that they had been called in urgently and had no idea why. They were perfectly pleasant, and when there were no customers in the shop, they went into the back and hacked the body of the former owner to pieces with one of his own meat cleavers, bundling an arm and a leg into a satchel they'd brought with them. It had been through the wars, that bag – literally; it had belonged to Scabior, a young man Greyback had known who was now serving time in Azkaban. He hadn't been a werewolf, but he hadn't seemed to notice Greyback was, either, though he certainly knew. Scabior was one of the few who were all right in Greyback's books. He was gone now, though. And there wasn't anyone else around to contradict Greyback's worldview.

They left the bulging satchel in the back after cleaning up the blood and carried out business as usual. Greyback was assuming it was usual, anyhow. No-one really seemed to raise too many questions. They just accepted that it was the way of the world; people came and went, and sometimes the butcher's shop transferred ownership.

It wasn't until after five o'clock in the afternoon that things began to get a little messy.

A middle-aged woman came in while Greyback and Loki were lounging against the back counter, not really talking, just waiting for the quiet spell to end again. Loki was wondering why no-one had thought to put a stool back here; he didn't like to be on his feet for too long and Greyback had told him that it wasn't usually acceptable in front of Normal people, and certainly not in the workplace, to sit on the floor. Greyback himself was watching the clock. He knew it wouldn't be long before the parent of whatever unwary child Ettie had lured began to notice they were missing. Perhaps it would be quite a while, if they often took a detour to play in the building site. And perhaps it would take even longer for anyone to start actively _looking_ for the child. Greyback wasn't actually sure if he'd hear anything at all today.

But the woman standing in front of him had a brow that was creased with worry, and no other children with her. "You haven't seen a kid aged about ten, have you?" she asked. "He hasn't come in here?"

Greyback raised his eyebrows. "No," he said innocently, looking towards Loki, who looked back at him with a similar look of polite confusion. "No, I haven't, and I've been in here all day. Why, do you think he might have been?"

"No," sighed the woman. "Only he's gone and run off and he's going to be late for his tea."

"Run off?" said Greyback. "In the town? I can keep an eye out for him, if you like." He gestured out of the window.

"It'll be fine, really," said the woman, huffing and shifting her handbag strap further up her shoulder. "He's always doing this, but he'd usually back in time for tea."

"I know all about that!" said Greyback. "This one, here..." He clapped a hand to Loki's shoulder, grinning at the woman, and Loki found himself almost unable to maintain his oblivious expression, almost giving Greyback a resentful look. He didn't understand how he could be so jovial, even in pretence. Greyback seemed to notice, and withdrew his hand and his grin. "But I'm sure your son will be back soon. Kids are always getting into scrapes, aren't they?" He smiled a smaller smile.

"I suppose," said the woman, shaking her head as though she had had quite enough of her son getting into scrapes to last her a lifetime. "Well, his name is Kevin and he's in a school uniform, and like I said, he's ten years old, so if you see him, do tell him I'm just about fed up with him."

"Will do," said Greyback. "Anything else I can help you with?"

"No, thanks," said the woman. "I'm just heading up to the supermarket to buy some mince. Nothing against you lot, but you don't half overcharge." She left, the bell on the door tinkling.

"We'll see," murmured Greyback, as though she could hear him.

"That kid would be about Faolan's age," said Loki softly.

"And _nothing like_ Faolan," growled Greyback. "Probably a bully, with a mother like that, and he's inconsiderate of her, too. She isn't exactly worried about him. What does that tell you? That he goes off all the time. He doesn't care for her. He only goes back for food; he only cares about what she can give him. And if he's already like that at his age, how do you think he'd feel about us? How do you think he would treat us _if he ever got old enough to exert any sort of influence_?!" Flecks of spittle were flying from his mouth, and he realised Loki was nearly cowering in the corner, his shoulders drawn up, lips pulled back, whimpering. Greyback stopped to breathe. "I am sorry," he said, "but it is true. Please don't whimper. I don't like to see you do that."

Loki stopped immediately.

"Everything will be all right, you know," said Greyback. He pulled Loki to him and butted his head against the boy's cheek. It was as close to a hug as Greyback ever found himself giving these days.

"I know," said Loki. "I know," he repeated, with more conviction in his voice. He resolved not to think about the kid, and not to listen to the woman if she came in any time in the future. Like Fenrir said, the children were collateral damage. That's what he'd always said. Loki was lucky himself, as were the others, that they had escaped being such a thing. It was no use feeling sorry for someone who was already gone.

"Now," said Greyback, with a grin, "shall we close up early tonight?"

They did, and made the trek home with a bulging bag of meat and bone. Greyback had deigned to carry it; he thought he had worked Loki hard enough the past couple of days, and the dead weight was a lot to manage over any sort of distance, and he was much bigger and hardier than the younger man.

When they arrived home, though, Greyback was greeted with something he did not expect. His instructions to Ettie were clear, and he did not like to be surprised. He'd thought everything would be simple. He'd thought everything would go according to plan. Ettie usually was so happy to keep him contented. He'd thought the kid would have been taken to the cellar and killed, as per his instruction, and they would deal with the body later. Minimal mess, no fuss. That was obviously not what had happened.

He entered the building to be greeted by the carcass of a small child laid out on the floor, one hand missing. Faolan seemed to have ripped it off; he was curled up in a corner and seemed to be gnawing on something that sounded a lot like raw meat and sinew. Ralph was lounging on a barstool and picking at his teeth, his own shirt splattered dark red. No-one else was anywhere to be seen.

"What in name of _fucking_ Merlin is going on?" Greyback snarled.

"We were gonna ask you," said Ralph. "Ettie comes home with this kid, right, leading it by the hand, and she says she's gotta take it into the cellar, and then she starts apologising to it."

"Apologising?" said Loki.

"Yeah," said Ralph. "'_I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry_'... Anyway, the kid cottons on there's something not right, and he bolts. Course, we couldn't let him go, 'cause I figure she's brought him here for a reason, only you didn't tell us. I caught but him but he struggled – finicky little blighter. I snapped his neck in the end. I didn't know what to do with him after so I just left him there. I told the rest not to touch it but he wouldn't listen." He jerked his head in Faolan's direction. "I think you need to discipline that one. I could do it for you."

"No," said Greyback, dumping the satchel, starting past him and going up the stairs. "Where's Ettie? Why didn't she do it? Why didn't she do what I told her?"

Ralph shrugged, drawing in the dust on the counter with his fingers. "I didn't like to ask. She seemed upset. You all right, Loki?"

Greyback gave another snarl and headed up the stairs, leaving them to it. "Ettie!" he roared. "Where are you, girl?"

She didn't answer, but he could hear a soft sobbing coming from his own bedroom. Thundering in, he flung open the door as wide as it would go and he found her there, tangled up in the blankets and clutching them to her, her face buried in them. "Sorry," she mumbled.

"What's that?" Greyback growled, grabbing her by the wrist and wrenching her up to look him in the eye. "I couldn't hear you."

"I'm sorry!" She looked terrified. "I couldn't do it! I wanted to, I tried, but he was so innocent-looking and I thought—I thought—"

"I don't care what you thought! I didn't ask you to _think_!" His nails were digging into the skin of her wrist, and that would have done a lot more damage if they hadn't been cut short just days before. "I didn't bring you here to think!"

Ettie wrenched her arm from him, and pulled away. She had seen him like this before, usually when the moon was nearing fullness. But today was not close enough to the full moon for that to be an excuse; he simply seemed livid. His eyes were bulging and bloodshot, and his teeth were bared. She wondered, suddenly, deliriously, if he might kill her. She had always trusted him until now. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she said, again, lowering her head and arching her shoulders. "He was just a kid, Greyback..."

"I don't want excuses," said Greyback, and his voice was soft now, trembling with a quiet anger. "I want this done properly."

It wasn't that she had really done anything terribly wrong, but if she couldn't carry out his instructions, then she couldn't be trusted not to cock up his plans. And if she was going to botch this, was she going to botch something in the future, when it really mattered? And what the kid had escaped? What if she had been alone, without anyone to grab the child, and he'd just run off? What if he'd gone back to his mother with news about the woman who wanted to bring him into the cellar of the abandoned pub? That woman seemed as though she would waste no time in starting a witch hunt, and when that happened, they'd be done for. Greyback's plan was to be out of there before something like that happened, but it couldn't happen this early. That would ruin everything.

He was panting hard now, trying to see straight. "You do what I say, from now on," he growled. "All of you. You understand, girl?" She nodded, lip trembling. "And what are you doing in my bed?"

She swallowed. "I though—I mean," she amended, "I want you to understand."

"I understand enough," said Greyback.

"About the kid, I mean. He—Well, it's me, really... I couldn't just _kill_ him. It didn't seem right, Greyback—"

"You're not turning into some ridiculous lap dog for them, are you?" spat Greyback. "It's bad enough with Loki down there – 'Oh, but the children are _innocent_!'"

"Well, they are," said Ettie.

"And what they will grow up to be _is not_!" roared Greyback. "If you can't handle being a werewolf any more, Ettie, that's too bad. They still haven't found a cure, you know! So if you want to run off and find a nice family to take you in, go right ahead. Maybe they'll even take you for walks in the park on Sunday afternoons! But if you're not stupid enough to try that, you're staying here with me, and if you're with me, you're going do whatever the fucking hell I tell you to do. Do you understand that, little girl?"

Ettie nodded dumbly.

"Good. Now go downstairs and put that meat away before it spoils. I'm going to bed." He watched as she scurried out, shame-faced, and slammed the door behind her.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Greyback woke the next morning long before the others had stirred. The sun had just risen and the birds had begun to sing. The song was too shrill; it pierced the air and seemed to mock him. He lay there for a long while, in the early dawn light, and chased thoughts round in his head. Why Ettie had had the change of heart he did not know. And Loki – why would Loki contest him now? They both knew the sort of life they led, and why it was so.

Ah, maybe he'd been too soft on them, he thought. Maybe, in trying to keep them safe, he'd shielded them too much from the horrors off the world's people. They couldn't see the children for what they really were – squealing piglets, who'd grow up to be just as nasty and greedy as their parents. Maybe he ought to stop trying to protect them so much. _And maybe_, another part of him whispered, the black and rotten part of his soul, _maybe they'll get in the way. Maybe they'll say you've gone insane and stop you from killing the pigs altogether._

He wondered, if it came down to it, if he could kill his own babies.

The sheets on the bed were wrong for him. They were too soft, too white. They smelled of cotton and roses where they used to stink of sweat and dirt and _him_. He didn't like it, he decided. Ettie could keep her fresh linen and her soft heart. That wasn't what he was about. He wasn't going to go mellow or to forgive. He kicked the blankets off with ferocity and stretched, his muscles aching as they always did and his bones cracking loudly. He headed downstairs.

He'd have woken Loki up, but he didn't want him with him. He moved through the house without making a sound; he didn't want to disturb any of the others. He wanted to be left alone. That was how he worked best, alone. He needed them behind him, all right – without them he was nothing at all, just a lone lame wolf howling into the empty night. But with an army behind them, after he'd brought down his vengeance on this little town, well – he could take the world, if he wanted to. They just had to bide their time and to build their empire. And it would be a fine empire, the union of man and beast.

"Get off," he mumbled sleepily at a rat that was sitting on top of his boots. He shooed it away. It scurried off and hopped down the steps to the cellar. Greyback watched it go. No doubt there would be others, in a building this old and with a carcass hidden in the darkness. He made a mental note to catch and kill them when he got home. They could use them for stew, if need be. If he couldn't trust the others to help him kill the pigs. They'd probably shirk from killing the rats, as well, he thought bitterly. Rats, he had no doubt, were innocent as far as Loki and Ettie were concerned. Not that that had ever stopped them before – though it had never stopped them from feeling bad about human death, either. At least he could trust Ralph. The boy might be full of it, but he knew which side his bread was buttered on, and he wasn't about to turn on Greyback. No, Greyback thought dourly, pulling on his boots, Ralph loved himself too much. The others wouldn't have the insolence.

He made the journey into town by himself, when the snoring got too much for him and he didn't think he could stand another moment in that blasted armchair. He hated that they slept while it fell on him to do everything for them – they had it easy. He'd taken them in, tramps and strays and whores and all, and he'd made them a home and now he was left king of nothing but a litter of tame pups. He hated that he'd tried so hard, before, to be their father and their friend. If he'd been harsher with them he might have commanded more respect. And he'd have been left with strong and loyal followers who would have spread his vengeance like a plague instead of this hapless pack of hounds.

Listening to them sleep wasn't doing any good, so he left on his own without disturbing Loki. He loved the boy, he really did. He was his son. The others he felt the need to protect, the others' lives he had shaped, but he loved Loki like he was his own blood. Loki had come to him – or rather, he'd come to Loki – at a time when he'd had no-one else. When he was left to die quietly like a working dog that had outlived its usefulness, the child had been there. When he'd been nothing to anyone, he'd been Loki's world. And Loki had been his. And Loki was a son to be proud of. But he was struggling with his youth.

Yes, that was it. It was nothing more than that Loki was growing up. He'd soon realise his father had been right all along, Greyback thought. He'd understand. He was just trying to find the right way to be himself. God knew Greyback remembered what it was like as a young man. The last thing he'd wanted to do was what his parents thought was right.

_And look where it got you_¸ said a snide little voice in his skull, the one that he had mostly learned to silence by now. _Got yourself into a mess you can't wriggle or lie or kill your way out of. Like you told Ettie just yesterday – maybe you thought you'd forgotten – but there's no cure_, he reminded himself in the voice he thought had gone, _for being a werewolf._

_And there doesn't _need _to be!_ he thought angrily. _You're just as bad as _them_ if that's what you believe under it all._

_There's no cure for being a monster,_ murmured the voice, and he didn't think much after that.

He walked to the butcher's shop to the backdrop of the screeching birds, which were beginning to sound less pleasant by the day. The weather was duller, too, though it may have been the earliness of the morning. Things might look up around noon. But as it was, the clouds were gathering in the middle of the sky, sometimes obscuring the sun so that patches were plunged into a cold, grey darkness. Might rain later, too, Greyback thought.

He let himself into the shop and scowled around at the dangling decorations. Irritated by them, by their tastelessness and ugliness, he reached up and pulled one down. It was a wooden joint of ham, and it came out in his hand with a tearing sound and a puff of plaster dust from the ceiling. He growled to himself. It would take longer to get the rest down without bringing down the roof.

He tossed the ham joint into the far corner of the room and went to find his apron and set up for the day. The skin around his eyes ached. He hadn't slept well last night at all. It had been early in the morning when he'd finally drifted off, and then only for a couple of hours. The rest of the night, from the early evening, he had spent tossing and turning in frustration. All the muscles in his shoulders seemed to have knotted together, and he couldn't find a comfortable spot on the too-clean sheets. They were probably on their way to being filthy again now, soaked with his sweat.

He shrugged off his coat. Underneath, his skin felt clammy – still damp but cold now. He supposed he'd warm up when the sun rose higher.

He wished he'd brought a book to read. He didn't have many books, and he hadn't read any in a long time. There had been some, before, back at the old place. They had been battered things he'd owned since his school days, though some had been brought by the older additions to the group – pulp fiction and even Muggle works, and one old storybook of illustrated fairy tales. The young ones hadn't been old enough to read it, and that had been fortunate. When Greyback told them the stories, he didn't read what was on the page. He didn't like the story of Little Red Riding Hood, or the Three Little Pigs.

Some of the books he'd taken from the library of one of the Death Eaters, back when they had still been friends. All the Death Eaters were in Azkaban now, and the books were buried under a pile of ash and rubble. They said, the wizards, that the Dark side was cruel, but in their righteous fury they'd taken his home from him and killed his children and forced him to flee and now he had no books left. Now he just had thoughts, and they were mostly bitter and vicious, though they kept him entertained.

In the afternoon, a woman came into the shop with a determined look on her face. It was not the sort of look with which people often did their afternoon shopping.

"Who are you?" she said abruptly, upon seeing him.

Greyback studied her. She was short and sturdy-looking, not fat, but with meat on her. Her hair was pulled back from her face in a tight blonde bun, and what little make-up she had looked hurriedly-applied. Her eyebrows were pulled together in a frown.

"I could ask the same of you," he said.

"No, you bloody well couldn't. This is my husband's family's business. What are you doing behind the counter?"

"Oh." Greyback blinked at her. So this was the wife. He tried to think what the butcher had called her on the phone. Martha, was it? Something like that. Mary? That might have been it. "I'm afraid I don't know much more than you, ma'am. I received a call on the... on the _telephone_. I was asked to manage the affairs here for a bit, while Mr McCaffrey was away."

"And who are you?" the woman asked again. "Who was it asked you to come in?"

"It was Oliver himself," said Greyback mildly, rearranging the sausages.

"What did he say?" she said. "Only he hasn't been home in a few days."

Greyback raised his eyebrows, feigning surprise. "Only that he had to take some time off. He didn't go into detail much more than that."

"He must have said something about the situation. He's not one for disappearing for days on end."

"He didn't," said Greyback firmly.

"Why did he call you? Who _are_ you?"

"A friend."

"He'd never mentioned you."

"I'm in the business. We weren't close."

"In the business."

"Yes. I used to work in a pie shop."

"You work with meat, do you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Shouldn't you wear gloves when you're handling it?"

Greyback tensed. "Slipped my mind."

"That's health and safety. I could have you reported."

"It won't happen again."

"I should bloody well think not. This is my husband's shop and I'm not having you letting the place fall to ruin while he's gone. Are you sure he didn't tell you anything else?"

"No. He mentioned something about financial difficulties. I didn't want to pry."

The woman – Mary, or whatever – stared at him for what felt like a very long time. He stared back, and his skin prickled. He'd have to kill her, too, if she thought he was up to anything. That wouldn't be so easy. He didn't know where she lived. He wished for a moment that he had brought Loki with him. He would no doubt put her at ease. The door opened with a tinkle of a bell and a young woman entered with a little boy. He remembered them from the other day. Iris, and Marty. Mary turned to look, and Greyback released a huff of breath. Mary's head turned back to him.

"Your eyes," she said sharply. "They're yellow."

Greyback tilted his head and tried to suppress the very attractive thoughts of ripping off her skin. "Yes," he said. "They are."

"It's probably a medical condition," she said. "You should get it seen to." Greyback sneered. "And cover up that, on your arm. Health and safety, like the gloves. Don't think this is the end of it. I'll be back to see what's going on here in a couple of days, when I can get the time off work. What's your name, by the way?"

"Fenrir Greyback. I don't like being spoken to like that," he said.

"Tough," said Mary, and turned on her heel and marched out. Greyback watched her go, his face impassive for the benefit of the other customer. Inside, he was thinking many things. She was, as they said, all bark and no bite. She must be. She didn't know anything about her husband's financial affairs or his business. She hadn't tried to see what Greyback was doing – and wasn't he grateful she hadn't asked to see the back room. He couldn't even have killed her there, not with a witness in the front. Besides, she might have told someone she was coming. She just wanted to frighten him, or maybe she was scared herself. He'd seen it enough. People lashed out in fear. But she'd resorted to personal remarks instead of actual questions, and that told him enough, didn't it? They couldn't call him murderer for having yellow eyes – oh, the wizards would label him dog, but the Muggles didn't know any better.

He glanced down at his arm. There was a bite mark there, just above his elbow where he'd rolled up his sleeves. It was an old scar, and it still hurt him sometimes. Sometimes it wept, and it was weeping now, the skin red and swollen like a blister. He was used to it; he hadn't noticed. He rubbed it hard to clean it. Wounds of that sort never healed properly. Werewolf wounds were cursed. He'd done it himself years ago, taken a bite out of himself because he'd had nothing else to bite. He hadn't even been transformed at the time.

The other woman, Iris, came forward, and asked for bacon in a shaking voice. Greyback looked at her curiously, pulling on his gloves. "Everything all right?" he asked her.

She nodded, lips pressed in a thin line, and then she stopped and shook her head and sighed. "No, it's not. I've got to get the dinner in for him and his lot, and I've just had a phone call at work saying my uncle's been taken into hospital so I've to rush over there and see him, only I can't leave them at home because it's just my granda there and he's not a lot of use – I mean, he's got his arthritis, bless him, but he never gets up from that chair – so I'm not going to be able to get up to the hospital until tomorrow and I don't know what condition he's in; they wouldn't tell me over the phone and it might have changed by the time I've got there, mightn't it? And anyway, I don't know how I'm going to get to sleep tonight worrying if I don't see him so I shan't be in any fit condition to drive and there's no way anyone can afford a taxi out there so I'll have to be getting the bus but I just know I'll be late for it – I'm late for everything – and that old git who drives the thing has hated me ever since I kicked a ball into his garden when I was about five. A child! I ask you. He's no right to be driving that thing at his age let alone speaking to people like that when he'd supposed to be providing a service... Sorry, what was I saying?"

Greyback studied her. She seemed flustered and confused. He'd stopped listening after she'd mentioned that her grandfather wasn't fit to look after the children. "Can't you find a babysitter this evening?" he asked.

She snorted. "What, at this short notice? Good for anyone else, maybe, but I don't think they like me round these parts. I only moved here six months back. I daresay everyone will be suddenly busy with something or other. Anyway, I'm sorry for ranting at you, you don't need to hear all about me and my problems. I'll be getting this little fella home after I pay you for the bacon."

"You say your grandfather can't look after them?" said Greyback, handing the bacon over. "Surely he just needs to keep a watch?"

"He really can't do much," she said. "The arthritis is crippling, poor thing. I mean, he can move when he wants to – when he's missed the start of the football on TV – but he's not up to cooking or anything."

"But you do trust him to watch over them otherwise?"

"I would, of course," she sighed. "But that would be too convenient."

"I tell you what," said Greyback, "I'm not doing anything this evening. Why don't I come around for a couple of hours and sort their dinners out for them, Iris?"

She frowned, and chewed on her lower lip. Greyback could almost see the thought process – they were so dull, these people, so predictable. She didn't know Greyback, but if her grandfather was there, it wasn't as though Greyback could do anything to harm the children. Maybe he wasn't likely to shift from his armchair, but if he could move when he wanted to see something on the TV – whatever it was – he wasn't going to let someone harm the children right in front of his nose. Greyback said he had young child in his care, anyway. And it was only for a couple of hours, and he had been so nice...

"You really wouldn't mind?" she asked.

"It would be my pleasure," said Greyback, grinning toothily. "I'm rather new to these parts myself, Iris, if I'm honest. And I do so love children, you know."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

When he closed up he made his way through heavy rain to the address she had given him. The day hadn't brightened at all. So much for the British summer. His coat was soaked through by the time he arrived, when he knocked on her door she apologised profusely and ushered him inside, setting him by the fire to steam while she put on the kettle. The house was small, with thick stone walls and a garden that had clearly seen better days, even without the wind blowing the overgrown grass this was and that. There were children's toys scattered around it – mostly broken – and cracks in the path. The inside of the house was no better for tidiness, but at least it was warm and homey. A thick, colourful rug was draped over the back of a worn old sofa, and in an armchair across the room, there was an old man with a thick white moustache sitting. He stared at Greyback when Iris led him in and sat him down at the end of the sofa, nearest the fireside. When Iris introduced him, he grunted.

"It's nice to meet you," said Greyback, offering him a hand.

"He doesn't talk much," Iris said under her breath, making her way into the kitchen.

Ignored by the old man, Greyback sat on the sofa, which creaked unsettlingly under his weight, and rubbed his hair to try and get the wetness out. It still wasn't longer than a couple of inches, but it had grown back rather a lot since Loki had cut it off for him. It always did grow faster than normal when the moon was close to being full. It was preparation. Sometimes it grew on the palms of his hands. He rubbed them on his knees self-consciously. His nails were getting longer. How long did Normal people usually keep their nails? he wondered. Maybe he would have to trim them again.

The old man was watching him suspiciously. Greyback gave him a nod. He turned away to stare at a big black box in the corner, pointing something rather like a wand at it. It sprang to life. Greyback started. Pictures flashed across the screen – people talking. It seemed surreal. He wondered if it might be some sort of Muggle Pensieve, but the way the people were behaving seemed oddly forced and unnatural, like a bad play. Greyback stared, transfixed. Iris made her way back in with a steaming mug of tea.

"TV's on again, I see," she said, sounding distinctly unimpressed. "I can't work out why, but he loves those rubbish soap operas. A lot of flapping around and shouting, is what they are. I hate them, don't you?" She handed him the mug.

"Oh – yes," said Greyback, accepting it. "I can't stand the things. Thanks."

"I didn't know if you took sugar," she said, " but I didn't put any in. There's some in there, in the top cupboard, if you want any. KIDS!" she shouted, turning to the door to bellow into the hall. "Come down here! I want you to meet the babysitter before I leave! I'm sorry I'm running out on you," she added, turning back to Greyback. "Only I really want to get up there as soon as possible."

"It's fine," said Greyback. "That's why I'm here." He gave her a grin.

"I hope the tea's all right." She had a set of keys out, and was flicking them nervously against the back of her hand.

Tentatively, Greyback took a sip. It was too hot to tell, really, but he smiled at her anyway and told her it was lovely. "Been a long time since I've had a _really good_ cup of tea," he told her, and in truth it had been. Years.

"Great," she said, not seeming to care one way or the other, when the door to the front room swung open and a small troupe of kids wandered in. They were pale and looked at him with wide, deep-set blue eyes. He could tell they were related. "You remember Mr Greyback from the butcher shop, Marty," said Iris, nudging the little boy towards him. "Say hello."

"Hello," mumbled Marty, staring up at him. Greyback looked back, feeling put upon by their stares.

"This is Gwendolyn – Gwen," said Iris, gesturing towards an older girl who seemed to be about nine, "and Carol and Steve are the twins." The twins were not more than six or seven years old. "Right little terrors, aren't you?" They didn't respond. "Right. I'll be off then. I'll tell Uncle Rob you were asking for him, shall I?" Only Gwen nodded. "Well. Be good for Mr Greyback then, won't you?" She turned back to him. "I was just going to give them bacon sandwiches for tea," she said. "The bacon's in the fridge and the bread is – well, it's in the bread bin. They know where the sauce and everything is, and I should be back in a couple of hours. Just don't let them run riot. Not that they would," she added hastily. "They're good kids."

"I'm sure I can handle them," said Greyback, with just a hint of a smirk.

"Thank you so, so much for this," said Iris, turning for the door. "You are an absolute lifesaver, I don't know what I would have done without you this evening."

"Oh, don't thank me yet," said Greyback, getting up to walk her to the back door as she turned to leave. "I haven't done anything _yet_."

She gave him a large, sincere grin, and stepped into the pouring rain. Greyback shut the door behind her after giving her a quick wave and he heard a shuddering old engine splutter into life outside. Its wheels crunched on the gravel as it drove away, and in the front room he could hear the sounds of the kids muttering to one another, and the sounds of the people on the TV. He made his way back there. The kids fell silent and turned to look at him almost immediately as he stepped through the door, eyes wide and distrusting.

"Well, well," said Greyback. "Shall we have some fun?"

They looked amongst each other uncertainly. The eldest, Gwen, spoke first. She was a tall and stringy girl, with scraggly, dirty-blonde hair. "We don't usually have fun on school nights."

"No? What do you do on school nights?"

"We do our homework and we have our tea and then we either sit with Granda and watch TV or we read a book. Well. I usually read books. _They_ usually watch TV."

"I bet you're top of the class, Gwendolyn, hm?" _And a nasty, busybody little swot, unless I miss my guess._

"Gwen," she said, sounding disgruntled. "And yes. I am."

"Your mother must be very proud." He made his way back to the spot near the fire. He liked it better there. The rest of the house seemed cold and draughty, with its old, thick stone walls. He didn't suppose there was any sort of central heating – not that it bothered him; he was used to the cold by now, but what he would have given for a proper fireplace in his own home, that he could sit or curl up by and just sleep without having to go through the furore of babysitting _human_ children. But he could grit his teeth and bear it. He really did like children; he'd dealt with human kids before, although these days he tended to like them best served with a foaming mug of Butterbeer.

"So what are you going to do?" asked Gwen. "Are you going to make us our tea or what?"

"Now?" said Greyback. "But your mum's just made me a cuppa." He lifted it with a quirk of his eyebrow, blew on it to cool it and tentatively took a sip. "Bloody good, too."

"You shouldn't swear," said the younger girl – Carol, if he remembered correctly.

"I do apologise, sweetie."

The girl looked up to her sister nervously. Gwen frowned at him.

"Are you being sarcastic?" she asked.

"Not at all," said Greyback.

"Can you tell us a story?" said her brother, Steve. "About trucks and laser guns? Living with girls is _boring_. They only want stories about _princesses_ and _ponies_."

"That's not me, only her," said Gwen. "I don't want any stories at all," she told Greyback, as though she had long grown out of silly things like that. "I only listen to them because I'm in the same room."

"That's a lie," piped up Carol. "You asked Mum for a story about Beauty and the Beast the other night."

"Beauty and the Beast?" said Greyback, hoping the conversation would steer towards fairy tales rather than the stories Steve had in mind, because he really had only the faintest idea what a truck was and none whatsoever about laser guns. "Why Beauty and the Beast?"

"There was an old cartoon on TV a while ago," muttered Gwen, scuffing at the floorboards with a sock-covered foot. "I thought Carol might like it, that's all."

"That's a lie!" said Carol. "I _don't_ like Beauty and the Beast! The Beast is ugly!" She pouted.

"But in the end, the Beast becomes handsome again," said Greyback. "Because he learns to love."

"Exactly," said Gwen.

"I don't care," said Carol. "He's mean and smelly."

"You can't smell him through the TV!" objected Steve.

"I think you're right, sweetie," said Greyback. "Beasts don't turn into handsome men in real life, not really. You'd do well to remember that." He looked at Gwen, right into her eyes. "All of you."

"I liked him better when he was a Beast anyway," said Steve. "I wish he'd killed the princess."

"She wasn't a princess!"

"Now," said Greyback loudly, "why don't I tell you a story that has nothing to do with beasts or princesses, children?"

"What?" said Steve. "I don't want a story that's got no beasts in it. That would be boring. Unless there's lasers. I like lasers. And robots."

Greyback frowned.

"I don't want a story without princesses," said Carol. "I don't like robots."

"I won't tell you about robots, don't worry," said Greyback, grabbing hold of her and pulling her into his lap. "This is about the Three Pigs and the Wolf."

"The Big Bad Wolf, you mean?" asked Steve, clambering onto the sofa to sit beside Greyback. There was a small plastic toy clutched in his hands – it looked like some sort of Muggle vehicle, probably one of the trucks he was so keen on.

"No," said Greyback. "That's not how the story goes. You see, there was once a little wolf who wanted nothing more than a safe place to live and to toast his toes by the fire. So he built himself a house, made out of straw..."

"That doesn't seem like a very good idea," interjected Gwen, who had taken a seat on the floor. "The fire would burn the house up."

"Well, it didn't," said Greyback. "It didn't get the chance. This little wolf built his house out of straw, and he lived there happily for a few days, toasting his toes and thinking about going on an adventure to the nearest town to see what he could see, when he saw through his window a pig approaching him over the hill. The pig was sweaty and lumbering, so huge it could hardly carry its own weight, and it had tusks the size of your arm growing from its hairy snout."

"_Cool_," said Steve.

"When it spied the wolf's house, its face lit up with a wicked grin. It knew the wolf lived there, and it wanted to cause trouble. So it shambled right up to the wolf's door and knocked three times. '_Little wolf, let me come in_,' it squealed. But the wolf knew the pig was only there to cause trouble, so he hid under his kitchen table while the pig squealed outside. '_Little wolf, little wolf, let me come in... Or I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll blow your house in.'_

"The wolf said nothing. He didn't want trouble from the pig. But true to its word, the pig blew the house down and left nothing but bundles of straw behind it. The pig lumbered through the wreckage, looking for the little wolf, but it was so stupid that it couldn't see where he was hiding."

"What about the fire?" asked Gwen. "Wouldn't the straw have blown onto it and set the whole place alight?"

"The pig blew the fire out," snapped Greyback. "But as I was saying, after the pig had left, the little wolf had nowhere to live. So he set about building himself another house, made of wood this time, and stronger, so that the pig would leave him in peace and he would have a place to quietly toast his toes by the fire. And the pig did not come back. But when the little wolf looked out of his window one day, he saw another pig lumbering over the hill, this one even bigger and uglier than the first. And the second pig – it was the brother of the first pig – approached the wolf's door, looking to cause trouble, for it had seen the wolf through the window, and it knew he was there, and it hated wolves.

"'_Little wolf, little wolf, let me come in...'_ the pig started to say again, and this time the wolf thought he would be OK, and that the pig would not be able to blow down his house of wood, and that it would eventually go away. But he didn't realise that this pig was bigger than the last one, and that it could blow harder – and blow harder it did, until the wooden house was blown to smithereens and the wolf had to make a run for it, scared of what this enormous pig was going to do to him.

"Later, the wolf decided he would build a new house. He decided that he would make this one out of bricks, so that it would be impenetrable, and that he would invite all of his wolf friends to stay with him so that if any of the pigs came back he would not be so frightened. And this time, a huge pig, bigger than either of the two that had come before, came over the hill, and it started threatening the wolf again, squealing and saying that it would blow his house down if he didn't let it in. But the little wolf held strong. The pig huffed and puffed but he couldn't bring down the wolf's house of bricks. Eventually, the pig grew tired and went away, forgetting about the wolf, and deciding that it would much rather engage in a more fruitful activity. But the wolf did not forget. The wolf had been very frightened, you see.

"Later, when the pigs had all gone home, the wolf invited his wolf friends to tea, but there was no food in his house. So what did he do? He went and ate the horrible piggies. Yes – and I think he rather enjoyed it.

"The moral of the story, children, is that you must never bully anyone, because no-one likes a bully, especially not those who are being threatened. And one day, they may just decide to get their own back."

"_That's_ not how the story is supposed to go," said Gwen. "It's _supposed_ to be the Three Little Pigs and the Big Bad Wolf."

"That's how I've always told it," said Greyback. And indeed it was – he had never read the version that was printed in the storybooks to any of his children. It did no good to fill their heads with such nonsense – he didn't want them to grow up seeing themselves only as dreadful villains, did he? The other children had princes and princesses – where were the wolves who were the heroes of the story? Why was it not even the wolf, in the old folktale, but the fucking _pigs_?

"I liked it," said Carol, squirming in his lap. "I liked the little wolf. He was like a puppy, wasn't he?"

"A bit, maybe, sweetie," said Greyback.

"I would like to have him as a pet," said Carol, and Greyback's lip twitched, for a brief moment, into a snarl. His hands, which had been around her waist to hold her steady where she sat, clenched.

"You can't own a wolf as a pet, sweetie," he said. "They're wild animals. They're not meant to be owned by people, you see. A wolf could eat you up if it felt like it."

"It wouldn't," said Carol. "I'd be nice to it."

"Then I daresay you'd be all right," said Greyback, wondering if he'd ever get a chance to eat _her_ up.

"I'm hungry," said Marty, who had been sitting on the mat beside Gwen, but not really listening to the story. Instead, he had been pushing around a small toy on wheels – probably another of Steve's trucks.

"You read my mind, little one," said Greyback. "I'll go and put the bacon on, shall I?" he said, standing and setting Carol on the floor.

The kids, sans Marty, followed him into the kitchen. "Will you tell a story about robots next?" said Marty. "Robots with tentacles?"

"Let's leave that until next time I'm looking after you, hm?" Give him time to learn what in the hell a robot was. He opened the fridge and pulled the bacon out, beginning to lay it atop the grill. "In the meantime, children – have you ever taken the long way home from school? There's an exciting place to play there, but you mustn't tell your mother..."

* * *

_I imagine I'll be taking a break from updating this as frequently for a while, but I haven't abandoned it, promise!_


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

He made his way home in the pouring rain. Iris had offered to bring him home in her car, of course, as he had been expecting, but he told her he liked to walk in the rain. In truth it didn't matter to him either way; he was used to the cold and the damp by now. But he did not want the woman knowing where he lived, and in any case, one look at the clanking metal box she called a car told him that it wouldn't have been able to support his weight. It seemed held together purely through rust and willpower.

Despite his thick coat and boots, by the time he got home he was soaked to the skin and shivering. The rain had been heavier than he had judged, the walk longer. The sky overhead had not cleared up in the slightest; it had only darkened with the approach of night. Iris had been away more than a couple of hours, and Greyback thought perhaps he would be stuck with the children forever, and was considering which one of them it would have made more sense to off first when she finally did arrive, looking tired and strained (he had been thinking about the little one, whose name he had forgotten, because the others might have believed he was just taking a nap).

He had meant to stop off at the shop on the way back to collect more of the meat, but he wasn't really in the mood for it. He thought he might call Ralph in as he worked the next day to carry it. He was stiff and his fingers were frozen and numb; he didn't much fancy the effort of unlocking, dismembering, packaging and locking up again only to have to haul twenty pounds of dead flesh over miles of muddy country tracks.

The main room was empty when he entered. The door was locked with the same heavy old padlock that had been on it since they'd arrived, which seemed to keep intruders away, but Greyback wished his magic was powerful enough to cast some sort of spell that hid the place from Muggle eyes. He wouldn't have minded taking in exploring children, but he didn't want the place to gain any sort of reputation.

The clock on the mantle, which had only one hand, ticked forlornly, and its sounds seemed very small in the room. The fire was smouldering and the room had gone cold. Greyback had been away, it seemed, for longer than he had thought. He sat heavily in the armchair by the fire, so old the stuffing was leaking out and it no longer seemed to have any colour, and tugged his boots off by the tops. They were cold and slippery, and the water inside sloshed around and seemed to suck in his feet before they came off with a wet slurping sound. He tossed them aside to where the fire was, and pulled his wand out of his robes to light it again. With any luck, they'd be dry by the morning, and his overcoat, too.

When the fire was roaring again, he hung the coat up next to it, along with his robes and socks and everything else, and then slumped back in the chair, picking at his teeth with a fingernail. He wondered what the others had done today – nothing useful, probably, he thought bitterly. They hardly seemed capable of it any more. They needed him so much more than he needed them, it seemed, and he cursed himself once more for letting the best of his lot be driven out of their home by the wizards. But damned if he was going to let them starve whatever happened. This would only be temporary, he thought, as he leaned deep into what remained of the stuffing of the armchair. Things would soon be back on track; they'd have food, and they'd have more brothers and sisters. They'd be legion, he thought sleepily, perhaps, after a bit, once he'd shown the Normals what was what and got themselves back on their feet...

A moth hovered around his head and he swatted it away with a hand that felt too heavy. His eyes were drooping shut; his fingers were still numb and cold but prickling, warmed by the glow of the fire. The moth fluttered away in front of him, nearer to the flames, and he watched it until it was little more than a dark spot dancing in the red glow, and he fell asleep dreaming of children's throats between his teeth.

When he woke up the birds were squawking outside and Faolan was chewing on one of his boots. The fire had long gone cold, and he was all too aware of the empty chill of the old building. He reached for his cloak – dry, for the most part – and pulled it around him. Faolan looked up from where he was crouched. Greyback looked down at him with eyes still crusty from sleep.

"Enjoying that, are you?" Faolan _mm_-ed through a mouthful of leather. "Act like a common dog, why don't you, that'll help our cause."

"His teeth are still coming through, Greyback," said Ettie's voice from behind. She spoke softly, as thought frightened she might be disturbing him. "His back ones. And it's the full moon in a couple of days. He needs—"

"Don't tell me what he needs," said Greyback, standing up and pulling on the cloak. He didn't look at Ettie. "I'm going for a shit."

He strode past her and headed up the stairs. Faolan turned his eyes on Ettie, wide and confused. "I don't think he likes me."

"Of course he does," said Ettie, but she wasn't looking at him, she was looking to where Greyback had headed towards the toilets. "But he's... under stress. We're just trying to get ourselves sorted out right now. Why don't you go outside and play? I'll have a talk with him, ask him to slow things down a bit, yeah?"

Faolan's brow furrowed, but he stood up. "I hate being the youngest," he huffed, as he pushed past her, leaving the gnawed boot behind him.

Ettie barely glanced at him as he went out of the door and into the garden. It was still drizzling rain, but they were used to the damp by now, and he was muddy enough anyway that it would hardly matter about getting him cleaned up later.

She was more focused on where Greyback had gone, watching the dirtied archways with some trepidation. She wrung her hands together, dragging her nails up and down the exposed skin of her arms. There were bumps and ridges there from other times she'd been unable to stop herself from clawing at them; it wasn't something she could help usually – she did it when she was anxious – and it certainly wasn't something that she could prevent herself doing when she had transformed. And she was anxious a lot, especially around the time of the full moon. It seemed to put everyone on edge, and she wondered if it was just the travelling and the upset that had irritated Greyback, combined with the cycle of the moon. He wasn't usually so bad. Usually, she trusted him, and until now, she'd always thought he'd be able to look after her and the rest of his pack, if he wanted to call them that.

He didn't call them that so much any more, though, she reflected, taking a seat in his armchair and gnawing on her fingertips to shorten the nails. There were too many of them now, it seemed. They were more than a pack now, he seemed to think. He'd told her more than once that they were greater than either common wolves or common people – they were an army, and they would conquer. She wasn't quite sure about that. She'd been keen on it when they'd first met, when she'd been barely more than a child and when she'd had no home and when Greyback had seemed like the light at the end of a long, dark tunnel – but she didn't think she held the idea of conquering in such high esteem now. Mostly, she just thought she'd like somewhere warm to sleep at night, and somewhere to call home. Security. The chair was still a little warm from Greyback having slept in it, but it wasn't hers. Nothing was really hers. Even her own body wasn't hers; no matter how Greyback tried to spin it, once a month she lost control, and even when she was just human there was always someone asking to use it and now...

She licked the remnants of the meat that Greyback had brought home from her hands. It was mingled with salt and dirt but part of her still tasted like the butcher, and for a moment she thought about the boy in the cellar. No, the _body_ in the cellar: he wasn't a boy, not any more. He was a dead carcass now, and he'd never really been any good in the first place, she reminded herself. Just a stupid human boy. Humans were nothing. Nothing. Not fit to lick their boots.

At least, that was Greyback's line of thinking, and what Greyback thought, she did not like to disagree with. Yes, he had been kind to her, and he had never hurt her, and she was without doubt that he would do anything in his power to protect her – or any of the others – from whatever may happen to them. But she had always felt a little uneasy around him, and in the past few weeks, he had done nothing to quell her fears. Not that he knew she had them (or, she didn't think he did); she felt guilty and sick for even having the vaguest notion that he might ever hurt her. He was her father and her protector, and it was hard to forget that she would be sleeping in doorways without him, tossed from bed to bed and begging for her next meal. What he wanted to do seemed too ambitious and too sick to even be possible.

_Stop it_, she told herself. _He knows what he is doing. He's clever and experienced and strong, and you're just a silly little girl._

In the toilets, Greyback stretched and yawned and picked a scrap of meat out of his back teeth with his fingernail. He thought he might find Loki later, see if he was feeling more co-operative today. He'd need him with him if he didn't want to start raising eyebrows. He shook himself, trying to get the damp away. It was mostly sweat; he'd dried out in the night. Even his mouth was dry. He'd been breathing through it rather than his nose. He hoped a cold wasn't coming on. That was inconvenient at the best of times, but at the full moon it was downright debilitating.

He splashed his face with cold water to get the crustiness out, and cupped the water in his hands to lap at it. It was nothing short of euphoric, feeling it soak into his tongue, and he gulped it down with urgency. It wasn't clean, but it was cold, and there was plenty of it, and as long as there was food and water and a roof over their heads and the human beings in the palm of their hands, it was enough.

Ettie look up, startled, when he walked out. He'd used his cloak to mop up the excess water on his face and was carrying it in a damp bundle in his hands. He tossed it by the fireside and pulled on his shirt instead. Because it was black, it still looked clean, and the fire had dried the water from the rain and the sweat from last night from it. It wouldn't need to be washed for a while – at least, not until it started to smell, he thought, and he sniffed at it himself, though he could smell nothing through a nose that felt too thick.

Ettie watched him get dressed with wide eyes. "What are you doing today?" she asked, as he searched the fire side for his wand and pocketed it. Greyback shrugged.

"Looking for Loki. We're going to work in town. I'd ask for your assistance but I don't think that would be worth much. I can't see what you did for this place while I was gone yesterday, so if you want to make yourself useful, I suggest you do."

"I'm sorry about before, Greyback." She averted her eyes, and was chewing on her knuckles. Her arms were covered in welts, Greyback noticed, some of them fresh. She did it when she was nervous – but she always did worry too much. More than the others, anyway, except perhaps Loki.

"Don't let it happen again," said Greyback. "Stick to what you've been told in the future; now how about that? I've told you what I need you to do. I need all of you behind me. I cannot exact my cold revenge by myself." He smiled, and his tone was mocking, but both of them knew he was far from jest.

"But do the kids—Do the kids have to be involved?"

"Yes!" he snarled, bearing down on her, and she cowered in the seat. His breath was hot and stinking as it always was. "The children, you silly girl, are the only way to make them understand."

"But the children—"

"Are innocent, but they are _human_. Merlin, Ettie, how many times must I say it? They – are – collateral – damage." His nails were digging into the chair on either side of her. "They don't _matter_."

"But they could be werewolves, too."

"Could be, but are _not_."

"But what makes the human children different than ours? Why can't we teach them—?"

"They will not be taught," he growled. "Not these ones. These ones will be slaughtered, and we will feast on them, and you will assist me or so help me, I will throw you back into the street where you came from, do you understand me?"

She didn't know what it was that did it. All she knew was that before she had had time to consider, she had lashed out at him, her bitten-down nails catching him in the face just below his eye. He gave a roar of pain and stumbled backwards a moment, just long enough for her to leap from the chair and to cower behind it, using it as something of a shield between the two of them.

"What the fuck do you think you're playing at?" he said softly, and there was a poisonous anger beneath his words.

"I can't kill them!" she yelped, her voice shriller than she had intended it. "Not the children! I don't care if they're human! I can't! I won't!"

"You will!"

"No!"

"This is a dangerous game, you stupid girl. You'll do as I say."

"No, I won't! Not this time. I can't—I don't want to."

"And why not?" He was looming over her again, and the chair, she knew, wasn't going to do much to stop him if he decided to lunge. He was much bigger and heavier than it was, and all she could do was back away, and to try and make herself look as small as possible in comparison. "For your own sake you'll tell me why, girl."

"Because I'm pregnant, Greyback!" It came out as a screech. "Because I'm pregnant, and I think it might be human."

There was a stunned silence for a moment, and Greyback suddenly seemed much smaller. "It won't be. It'll be like us."

"You don't know that," she hissed.

"I'll fix it."

"_Fix_ it?"

"Bite it."

"I know what you mean. But what's the difference, Greyback? What's the difference between this baby and the children you're going to kill before you're done here?" She hadn't realised when she had started crying, but she found it difficult to speak, and her eyes were swimming with the tears. "What'll stop you killing this one?"

He looked at her as though she was stupid. "Because this one is mine."


End file.
